On April 22, 2025, we welcomed our beautiful son into the world. My pregnancy had been healthy, my birth calm, and those first six weeks were nothing short of magical. We were in our little bubble of bliss - my husband home on paternity leave, and our newborn filling our home with life.

But as the weeks rolled on, reality set in. At eight weeks, the exhaustion hit me like a wall. By three months postpartum, I was depleted - my body worn out from breastfeeding, my mind frayed by sleep deprivation, my nerves stretched thin by hyper-vigilance. What began as fatigue quickly spiralled into anxiety, then insomnia, then a vicious cycle of exhaustion and panic.

The Breaking Point

I did everything we’re told to do when we’re struggling. I spoke to my psychologist. I saw my GP. I tried acupuncture, naturopathy, and vitamin infusions. I even tried two different anti-anxiety medications prescribed by my GP, believing it would take the edge off. Instead, my body reacted violently to each one, with panic attacks, terrifying visions, and the inability to eat or sleep. I remember lying on the bathroom floor at my parents’ house, consumed by despair, barely able to lift my head. It was one of the darkest moments of my life. I refused to believe that this was normal and a part of motherhood you just have to push through.

Finding the Right Help

The turning point came when I saw a perinatal psychiatrist. With her guidance, I admitted myself, with my son, to a perinatal mental health unit for two weeks. I began to regain my strength, as the staff cared for him overnight so I could sleep, whilst during the day, I was immersed in hands-on care, learning to trust myself as a mother again. 

The Myths That Hurt Us

One of the biggest lessons I learned during our stay was how a part of the anxiety and depression I experienced stemmed from the myths we hold about motherhood - That “good mothers” sacrifice themselves entirely. That you’ll never have a day off. That you should be able to do everything. That you should enjoy every moment. That there’s a ‘right way’ to parent.

These myths are lies and they crush us under impossible expectations. What I learned during our stay, and what I want every mother to hear, is this: there is no perfect way to mother. There is only the way that is right for you.

Despite my newfound awareness, upon our return home, things were bumpy. It felt like it was one step forward, two steps back, so I went back to see the perinatal psychiatrist after being discharged from hospital. She didn’t dismiss me as “just anxious,” and she told me that what I was experiencing was more than adjusting to motherhood. She listened. She continued to ask me questions about my family’s medical history and my past, and began piecing together what was going on. She promised me she would never let me slip through the cracks. For the first time, I felt safe. I could see that I wasn’t broken - I was unwell.

Uncovering the Hormonal Connection

As we continued working together, my psychiatrist helped me identify another crucial piece of the puzzle. For the first three cycles postpartum, I experienced a severe intensification of symptoms in the lead-up to my period - crippling mood swings, heightened anxiety, deep sadness, a sense of rage I couldn't explain and even thoughts of self harm and suicide. It felt like I was being hijacked by my hormones each month and it was terrifying. I came to learn that what I was experiencing was premenstrual dysphoric disorder - a hypersensitivity to the hormonal changes leading up to my menstruation. Recognising this pattern was another turning point. For the first time, I felt seen in a way that connected the dots between my body and mind. This wasn’t just psychological. It was physiological, too. It was in my hormones, my brain chemistry, my postpartum body trying to recalibrate.

Showing Up, Even When It Hurt

It was heartbreaking not being able to feel joy, especially as a mother. To look at my son and not feel connected, while everyone around me basked in the delight of him. But even in those moments, I showed up. Even when I barely recognised myself, when I felt like a liability to myself, when my brain felt like it was so overstimulated like it was hooked up to electrodes, buzzing and physically hurting, when the depression felt like a permanent dark cloud over me, or when I wanted to run - I stayed and leaned into my faith. I spoke up. Again and again. I followed professional advice. I held him, fed him, played with him, cared for him, even when I felt numb, anxious or depressed.

And that, I now know, is its own kind of strength.

The Small Wins of Recovery

What I learned about mental health illnesses and recovery is that it isn’t linear. It’s not about suddenly waking up “better.” It’s about incremental gains - one good day, then two, then a week. It’s about allowing for those bumpy days, too, without letting them erase your progress. It took several months for me to find solid ground and feel like I was more than just ‘managing.’ Along with regular therapy sessions, I tried several types of medications until we finally found one that I could tolerate and that worked to treat the anxiety and depression. Finally, I felt well enough to go to yoga again, to reconnect with my friends and their children, to visit family and to get out of the house each day.

Slowly, I’ve started to come back to myself. To feel, to think, to simply be. Our family has begun a ritual of morning walks, picking flowers along the way. I show them to my son, bring them home, and arrange them into one of my hand-made pottery vases. It’s a small act, but it brings life into our home - and life back into me.

What I Want You to Know

I'm forever grateful for my support network. I know that I couldn't have gotten through the last few months without my husband, family and friends. Leaning on my loved ones helped me keep going and gave me the strength to persevere. They reminded me that we don't need to go through hard times alone. 

If you are reading this and struggling, please know this: You are not alone and you are more resilient than you know.

The bravest thing you can do is speak up. Reach out. Keep reaching until you find the right help. For me, it was a perinatal psychiatrist who saw me clearly and refused to let me slip through the cracks. For you, it may be something different. But the help is out there.

Motherhood broke me open. But in breaking, I found a deeper resilience. I am softer now, learning to be more compassionate with myself, and more honest about my struggles. And I believe that is the gift of these challenges: they strip us of perfectionism and force us to rebuild with truth, grace, and strength. They remind us that no matter how much you try to control life, some things are out of our control. What’s most important though, is not what happens to us but what we do about it.

Final Words

Healing comes slowly, but it comes. Joy returns, often in the smallest rituals. And one day, you will find yourself smiling, not through effort but through ease, and realise: I am coming back to myself.