I had PPD and a life-threatening illness—Here’s how I found my voice

I was a wife, a sister, a daughter, a veterinarian, a new mother—and I was dying. 

It was a scenario only plausible in the movies. Seven months after giving birth to my son, I was diagnosed with a rare life-threatening disorder. I was more likely to be struck by lightning than to be diagnosed with aplastic anemia. I was supposed to be enjoying the “happiest time of my life”, but instead I was hospitalized for six weeks. My bone marrow was failing and my worst fear was coming true: my son would be left to brave the world without me. 

For six weeks, I was confined to a hospital room, separated from family and waiting for my body to respond to immunosuppressive therapy. My phone, my only form of communication with the outside world, continually buzzed with sentiments from well wishers. 

“Get better soon!”

“Thinking of you!”

“It must be hard to be away from Enzo, love you!”

As I read the last sentence, my stomach ached with guilt. Sure, I missed my son. I wished I could be with him. But, it wasn’t hard to be away from him. My cold unfamiliar taupe hospital room, with an obstructed city view, served as a reprieve from my silent struggle: postpartum depression. 

Like the abruptness surrounding my son’s earthside debut, motherhood had suddenly rearranged my entire center of gravity, irrevocably changing who I was and who I would become. With my son constantly latched to my breast, I yearned for my freedom, for bodily autonomy and for uninterrupted meals and sleep. My once streamlined and organized life was catapulted into disarray and my entire existence revolved around a wailing soul I barely knew, yet loved without question. The overwhelming gravity of raising a human—a good and kind human—hit me without warning, and I attempted to become the best mother ever. I struggled to do it all and I ultimately spiraled into a mentally and physically destructive inferno. 

Sleep deprived, I wearily navigated life as a new mother, struggling to differentiate normal feelings associated with profound life changes like motherhood from ones associated with postpartum depression. In love with my baby, I struggled to love my new role. 

Breastfeeding—what was supposed to be a magical bonding experience between mother and child—felt like a chore. The shrill cries interrupting midnight darkness and our quiet dinners sent regretful shivers down my spine and I felt guilty for wishing my husband could pick up a bottle and share what was my sole responsibility. My time was no longer my own and I began to resent my husband’s freedom, his lack of breasts. It was the fact I had to plan my showers, like I was orchestrating a heist, stealing precious alone time to complete a basic hygienic necessity. My husband didn’t need to meticulously plan his days, optimizing precious alone time for simple self care. Despite feeling overwhelmed with my new role, I dared not speak. Admitting I hated breastfeeding or admitting I needed help, meant I was a bad mother. 

Snuggled in the nursery rocking chair, silently feeding my son, my mind would often wander to unimaginable places. I was not prepared for the crippling anxiety associated with caring for a new soul. With my son’s round cherub-like face nestled sleepily to my chest, fresh milk dripping down his chin, my heart ached with the thought of the innocent soul in my arms one day inevitably being harmed by factors outside my control. These intrusive thoughts plagued me, popping up when I least expected them and leaving me in an anxious overstimulated state. I became obsessed with protecting my son, mitigating all risks. I spent countless hours researching the safest products, choosing only non-toxic toys and clothes, seeking parenting advice through multiple research backed forums, obsessively watching the baby monitor, watching my son’s every breath. My postpartum depression didn’t exist in moments of deep despair, but in the fact I was running a losing race, constantly trying to protect my son from everything and knowing I never could. This realization made all the other everyday tasks of motherhood all the more daunting. I rushed through them. I never relaxed. There was always something more for me to do. 

Now, I watch as a rambunctious 14 month old little boy crawls hurriedly across our wood floors, moving towards a tattered soccer ball. Piles of unfolded laundry fill baskets beside me, dirty dishes line the sink, and the trash needs taken out. I don’t care. I now choose to live in the moment. 

Following immunosuppressive therapy, my bone marrow has rebounded, my blood counts are normal, and I am given a second chance at motherhood. Faced with real fear, the anxieties I once hyper-fixated on are insignificant now. My disease, a blessing in disguise, forced me to recognize the stress of my previous life was simply unsustainable, and I became overjoyed to find all the moments of motherhood I previously was too sick to enjoy were now rich with happiness. Through the hindsight of trauma, I am healed, and given a new chance to truly relish in the joy of being a mother. 

I don’t pity myself. I don’t wish I was telling a different story. I simply wish I’d sought help sooner. I ignored my mental and physical red flags, jeopardizing the precious future I was endlessly trying to protect. I wish I hadn’t silenced my voice. I wish I’d realized I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t a failure. I wasn’t a bad mother. I was simply struggling to redefine myself in the confines of motherhood, battling both mental illness and physical illness, thinking I was all alone. I want others to remember, your feelings are valid, your struggles are real, you aren’t a bad mother—You have a voice too, use it!