There was always a light left on.
During those early days of postpartum depression, I kept the lamps lit, the blinds wide open. Darkness became too heavy, too lonely. It sounds simple — keeping the lights on — but in many ways, it was my lifeline. A small act of defiance against the despair quietly taking over.
The glow didn’t fix the ache in my chest, but it helped me feel less lost in the shadows of early motherhood.
I never expected to feel depressed after having Caleb. For months and months, all I did was think about my baby and how exciting it would be to finally see him, hold him in my arms, and bring him home. But reality wasn’t quite like that, and from the moment we brought him home, I cried all the time. It would come out of nowhere and could be prompted by anything, or even nothing at all. It scared Jerry to no end because I would sit there grabbing him, just sobbing and sobbing. I spoke many times about how I missed him, though he was right there. I missed our life, I said. I missed the memories from when we first met, and now we had a human to take care of and I didn’t know what to do. I was vulnerable and hurting, and cried about everything. I couldn’t believe how much my life had changed in a single instant.
I had to have visitors over constantly because I was scared to be alone. I had to have the blinds open and all the lights on because darkness would increase the feelings of despair. I didn’t hold him as much as I should have, had no problem passing him off to visitors, and I often wonder if it somehow affected our bond. I knew I loved him, but I didn’t feel that instant, crazy connection some mothers gush on about. Point blank, I was terrified. I was terrified of this baby. I was terrified of my emotions. I was terrified I was out of my mind and that this feeling of despair would never ever leave me. I didn’t know how I could live forever feeling this way.
There are a lot of things that contributed to my depression. Some of it was the fact that he was a winter baby and winter is always dreary and long anyway. We couldn’t leave a lot because he was this tiny, vulnerable newborn and it was freezing out, so we were housebound. Some of it was the fact that I already have anxiety and depression, so it was probably festering all along. Some of it came from the struggles of adjusting to life with a baby, all the changes that come from it, and having basically no sleep. I was exhausted and my whole world was upended. Breastfeeding was stressing me out, his cries were stressing me out, and life as I knew it was dead and gone. At the end of the day though, most of it was hormone related and simply not something I could have ever avoided.
I remember calling the hospital on my first night home. I spoke to the nurses because they said to call if you needed anything at all, and so I picked up that phone because I felt so hopeless. I don’t know who I spoke to that night, but the nurse on that line was an angel to me. I spoke to her for a good 30 minutes and cried the whole time. She soothed me and calmed me. I told her I was so depressed I couldn’t even eat, and that the tears wouldn’t stop coming. I told her I missed my old life, that I couldn’t handle this new one. She assured me that many moms feel a sense of mourning after their babies come, and that I wasn’t the only one. You mourn the life you had while you learn to live the new life that’s in front of you. I hung up that night grasping at my first sliver of hope.
A few days later, I went to see my doctor. I felt, talked, and looked like a zombie. “Where’s the baby now?” the nurse asked. In a flat voice, with tears on my face, I replied that he was home, that he was safe. My doctor was also an angel to me, one of the people who saved me in that dark time. He took one look at me and said “you’re going to be okay. The fact that you are showered and wearing make up shows me that this isn’t as bad as you think.” He assured me it was OKAY and NORMAL to feel this way because your hormones are completely whacky after giving birth. He told me it would lift in a few weeks, though I didn’t believe him at the time. He offered me anti-depressants if I wanted to take them in the meantime. I told him I was concerned that I was relying too much on other people to help. That my mom was staying the night most nights because we weren’t ready to take the leap and do it on our own just yet. He looked at me and he said it wasn’t weird or bad like I thought… not at all. He asked “don’t you think it’s weird that we’re actually one of the only countries that DON’T have families who all live together? There’s a reason a lot of other cultures do it. And my mom stayed with me when my kids were born, too.” I swear I could have hugged him in that moment. Now, over three years later, his words still ring in my head, words that I will never forget. Here he was, this doctor, this rich guy who I could NEVER relate to, and he shared this part of his early parenting days with me so that I could see I was not alone. I’m sure he went home and forgot all about it, but it has stuck with me all these years and always will.
A lot of people saved me in those days, and those doctors and nurses were just the start. More than anything, I relied on my family. My mother was a godsend who essentially moved in with us for about a month. She took turns on the night shift so that I could sleep and Jerry could rest before work. My sister in law and brother would bring us dinner and make us laugh. They’d text me and make sure I was okay. Other family members and friends would visit, would bring food, would be there just to talk and make me smile. Other moms who had been through the same thing as me reached out and told me I wasn’t the only one.
The doctor was right, and a few weeks later, the feelings of despair finally started to lift. Though I was still not confident in my ability to be a mom (and still wonder sometimes to this day), I became used to my new life, slowly. I could eat again and have lights off. I was feeling more like myself, and my bond with my son started to really grow. These days, I tell him just about every single day that I love him more than anything, and I certainly mean it. Back then, I didn’t know if I would ever feel that way. These days, it’s all a distant memory. This is my life now. I’m a mom and it’s a part of who I am. Sure, I sometimes miss the “old days” when I could be more carefree, but I wouldn’t trade this boy for anything in the world.
This go round, I am preparing myself for the possibility of experiencing Postpartum Depression after the birth of our second son come September. I will know not to be afraid this time. I will know that it will go away. I will know that it is normal and okay. I will know that I can and should reach out for help, from family, friends, doctors, and nurses.
Most importantly, I know with everything in me, that I will be okay.
Because this time? I know where to look for the light.
And if I ever forget, I’ll remember… it’s okay to leave one on.
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