I haven’t thought about this part of my life in a long time.
Or maybe I have tried not to.
But watching all of the controversy surrounding the Lindsay Clancy case has brought so much of it back.
The fear.
The shame.
The isolation.
The intrusive thoughts.
The feeling that everyone around me was enjoying motherhood while I was barely surviving it.
I want to be very clear: my story is not Lindsay Clancy’s story.
I am not comparing what I went through to what happened in her family.
But hearing people talk about postpartum mental health has cracked open memories that I haven’t visited in years.
And suddenly I remember exactly how bad it was.
My First Experience With Postpartum Depression
After my first baby was born, a friend invited me to a Mommy & Me event.
There were probably 25 moms there. My friend wore her Hermes belt and had the cutest little body.
You know the kind of thing.
New moms. Babies. Everyone talking and mingling.
It should have been fun.
Instead, I sat frozen in my chair.
I literally could not get up.
I couldn’t mingle.
I couldn’t make conversation.
My anxiety was so intense that I just sat there.
Then I started crying.
And I was so embarrassed.
I remember looking around at all of these other mothers who seemed completely normal and wondering what was wrong with me.
Why couldn’t I just stand up?
Why couldn’t I talk to people?
Why couldn’t I enjoy this?
I had a beautiful newborn.
I was supposed to be happy.
Instead, I felt ashamed.
My therapist pleaded with me to go on medication.
I didn’t want to.
I resisted it.
Looking back, I can see how much pressure I was putting on myself to do motherhood the “right” way.
Whatever that even means.
Then I Had My Second Baby
The second time was worse.
Much worse.
My psychiatrist wanted me to take medication during my pregnancy.
She pleaded with me.
I refused.
I was afraid.
Afraid of taking medication while pregnant.
Afraid of what it could do to the baby.
Afraid of breastfeeding.
Afraid of everything.
That was really the problem.
I was afraid of everything.
By the time I had my baby, my anxiety was completely out of control.
I couldn’t sleep.
I would lie awake for hours.
I prayed for hours in the hospital.
My brain would not shut off.
I was constantly ruminating.
About death.
About losing my family.
About something happening to my children.
About adding another child to our family.
Had we done the right thing?
Could I handle this?
Was everyone going to be okay?
Every thought became another thought.
And another.
And another.
There was no off switch.
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The Intrusive Thoughts Were Terrifying
This is the part people don’t always understand when we talk about postpartum anxiety and intrusive thoughts.
The thoughts were unwanted.
They scared me.
I didn’t want them.
But I couldn’t stop them from coming into my head.
There were times when I could not even take walks near bodies of water because my thoughts became so disturbing.
Water became a trigger for me.
Death became a trigger.
The idea of losing my family became almost an obsession.
My brain was constantly creating the worst possible scenario.
What if something happened?
What if someone died?
What if I lost my husband?
What if I lost one of my children?
What if something terrible happened and I couldn’t stop it?
I was terrified of my own thoughts.
And I didn’t know how to explain that to anyone.
I Was Watching Something I Never Should Have Been Watching
One memory still bothers me.
While I was in the hospital after giving birth, I remember watching a news story about a mother who drove her children into the ocean.
I was already incredibly fragile.
I wasn’t sleeping.
I was anxious.
I was having intrusive thoughts.
I was not medicated.
I barely knew what I was doing.
And that story was playing on the television.
Looking back now, I think, how was that happening?
How was nobody paying attention to what I was watching?
How was nobody thinking that maybe a newly postpartum mother who was already struggling mentally should not be sitting there absorbing a story like that?
That story stayed with me.
Of course it did.
My brain was already looking for things to be terrified about.
It didn’t need any help.
I Lied So I Could Go Home
The hospital knew I wasn’t doing well.
I was told I wasn’t going to be allowed to leave unless I agreed to take medication.
So I agreed.
Except I didn’t really agree.
I lied because I wanted to get out of there.
I just wanted to go home.
I thought maybe if I got home, everything would feel normal again.
It didn’t.
When I got home, I could barely leave my bed.
Thank God my mom was there.
Seriously.
Thank God.
My friends would come over and force me to get up and walk around the block.
I didn’t want to shower.
I didn’t want to get dressed.
I didn’t want to do anything.
Things that sound so simple when you’re healthy felt almost impossible.
Take a shower.
Get dressed.
Go outside.
Walk around the block.
They felt enormous.
Breastfeeding Made My Anxiety Worse
And then there was breastfeeding.
I put so much pressure on myself.
I had these huge expectations.
I had to breastfeed.
I had to do it right.
I had to be the perfect mother.
I had to bond.
I had to be grateful.
I had to enjoy every second because everyone tells you how fast it goes.
Meanwhile, I was barely functioning.
The expectations I had for myself were ridiculous.
But at the time they felt completely real.
Every choice felt like it mattered more than it actually did.
Breastfeeding.
Sleeping.
Feeding.
Schedules.
Yellow Jaundice.
Everything felt like a test I could fail.
And I already felt like I was failing.
Postpartum Depression Can Look Very Lonely
When I look back now, one of the things that stands out most is how lonely it was.
You can be surrounded by people and still be completely alone.
I was sitting in a room with 25 mothers and felt like the only person in the world who couldn’t handle motherhood.
You can have people around you.
You can have family helping.
You can have friends coming over.
And still feel completely trapped inside your own head.
That’s the part I wish people understood better.
Postpartum depression doesn’t always look dramatic from the outside.
Sometimes it looks like a mother sitting quietly in a chair.
Sometimes it looks like refusing to shower.
Sometimes it looks like not being able to sleep.
Sometimes it looks like obsessing over breastfeeding.
Sometimes it looks like being scared to walk near water.
Sometimes it looks like praying for hours because you are so terrified that you don’t know what else to do.
Sometimes it looks like smiling when someone asks how the baby is doing.
And nobody realizes the mother is falling apart.
Everyone Asks About the Baby
That’s another thing I remember.
Everyone asks about the baby.
How is the baby sleeping?
Is the baby breastfeeding?
Is the baby gaining weight?
Is the baby happy?
But what about the mother?
How is she sleeping?
Is she eating?
Is she showering?
Is she scared?
Is she having thoughts that frighten her?
Does she feel like herself?
Does she feel safe telling someone the truth?
Because I didn’t.
I felt ashamed.
I thought I should be happier.
I thought I should be handling everything better.
I thought something was wrong with me.
We Need to Talk About Postpartum Mental Health Before There Is a Crisis
Watching the Clancy case has reminded me of something I wish we talked about more.
We can’t only talk about postpartum mental health after something terrible happens.
We need to talk about it when a mother is sitting frozen at Mommy & Me.
We need to talk about it when she hasn’t slept.
When she won’t shower.
When she can’t leave her bed.
When her intrusive thoughts are so bad that she avoids certain places.
When she is terrified of losing the people she loves.
When she is putting impossible expectations on herself.
When she keeps saying she’s fine because she doesn’t want anyone to know how bad it really is.
I was that mother.
I loved my babies.
I loved my family.
And I was also suffering.
Both things can be true.
I wish I had understood that then.
I wish I had known that needing help did not mean I was a bad mother.
I wish I had known how many other women were quietly struggling too.
Because when you’re in it, it feels like you’re the only one.
And you’re not.
You Are Not Alone
Writing this has brought back memories I thought I had tucked away a long time ago.
I’m sharing it because postpartum depression and anxiety can be incredibly isolating. When you are in the middle of it, it can feel like everyone else is handling motherhood better than you are.
If any part of my story feels familiar, please tell someone. Your doctor. Your therapist. Your partner. A friend. Anyone you trust.
We need to talk about maternal mental health before a mother reaches a crisis — not after.
I survived that season of my life, but I will never forget how lonely it felt.
And no mother should have to feel that alone.
I’d probably end with that rather than making the conclusion too long.
Motherhood can be beautiful and overwhelming at the same time. If this story resonated with you, here are a few more posts about motherhood, mental health, and giving ourselves a little more grace:
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