How postpartum depression broke my perfect picture

Personal

May 11

As a photographer, there’s the expectation of finding the perfect picture. Naturally, I had an image in my mind of the first weeks and months with a newborn baby — a snapshot of us both swaddled in a smile. But this is a story of a different picture, a different reality. I have to share this because reading stories like this are what aided my own healing. I have to share this because being open and transparent about postpartum depression and anxiety has the potential to help others heal too. I have to share this because if I can be a source of light and relief to just one other person, then the terror I feel when opening up about such a dark time of my life will all be worth it.

My pregnancy was dreamy. Really. Besides the first few weeks of morning sickness, heartburn, and sleep struggles when I got too big to lay comfortably in bed, I felt wonderful and enjoyed being pregnant. It didn’t slow me down at all and I was able to enjoy my favorite things, like fly fishing, yoga, and cycling up until the very end. And even though Hudson and I hadn't planned to get pregnant when we did, I felt blessed to become a mom and to start a family with such a kind, patient, and joy-filled husband by my side. When we found out we were having a boy we were thrilled and had so much anticipation about what he would be like. Hudson and I would daydream daily about things like his hair color and which personality traits he would inherit from each of us. Would he have Hudson’s dark olive skin or my pasty pale complexion? Would he be shy or super outgoing?

We decided early on to name him after Hudson’s older brother, William, who passed away suddenly in 2013 but also wanted to pair it with something unique. So, we landed on William ‘Wilder’ Magee. Wilder coming from Wilderness...a place where you experience solitude, trials and searching. But hopefully, also a place where you learn, grow and rely on your faith to come out stronger. After all, that’s what life is all about, right? Little did I know, my very own wilderness would start the day Wilder was born.

Anyways, when I went into my midwife’s office for a checkup on the morning of October 23rd and was told my water had barely broken and I needed to go to the hospital to deliver, I was nervous but so ready. We walked into the hospital around 12:30 and after 3 or 4 hours I started having contractions and man, did they come on quickly. I rode the waves of contractions and pressure as best I could. I played cards with Hudson, listened to Mandolin Orange and laughed with the nurses to get my mind off of the intense sensations my body was feeling.

Labor was more emotionally exhausting than I could have ever imagined and there were moments where I felt like my body would give out on me. I remember laboring in the bathtub and getting to a place where I had never been before. A place that was as close to death as I’ve ever been and ever want to be. There really are a lack of words in the English dictionary to describe the pain one feels during childbirth. Beth Ann Fennelly gets close in one of her micro-memoirs when she writes:

“Chewing off a leg would have been easier than what I now required of myself. I understood I was alone in it. I understood I would come back from there with a baby, or I wouldn’t come back at all. I was beyond the ministrations of loved ones. I was beyond the grasp of men. Even their prayers couldn’t penetrate me. The pain was such that I made peace with that. I did not fear death. Fear was an emotion, and pain had scalded away all emotion. I chose. In order to come back with a baby, I had to tear it out at the root. Understand, I did this without the aid of my hands.”

Four and a half hours of labor. No pain medication, and no epidural. Natural. Just as I’d wanted and planned.

I had exuded strength that I didn’t know existed inside of me and despite the pain and terror, I was proud of myself. So proud and so happy. Even though my body had just experienced extreme trauma, I loved what I had accomplished and that I had felt every painful part of bringing another human into the world. And I loved the support and well wishes that Hudson and I received after Wilder was born...all the phone calls and text messages celebrating Wilder’s life. I was so grateful and wished I could ride that high forever.

But that didn’t happen.

I was told that the hormones leaving my body were bound to make me feel emotional and that I might have the “baby blues” for a couple of weeks. But two weeks passed (slowly) and I wasn’t better, I was tremendously worse. I wasn’t just sad and anxious, I was scared I would never get better and I wanted to run. Far, far far away. It’s almost like I wanted to run to my old life and away from this one. I missed my old life, my independence, my old responsibilities, and hobbies. I felt so trapped and I wasn’t sure I would ever love or know how to love Wilder and my new definition of family. Of course, this lack of love only intensified my anxious thoughts. Why didn’t I love my baby? My adorable, healthy, and perfect baby boy. Why did I not love my new life?

For weeks, I remember going through the motions of living. The motions of what a new mom is supposed to do. But I was numb. Numb to every emotion I should be having. For the first few weeks, I didn’t feel an ounce of joy or happiness. I wasn’t suicidal and I didn’t want to harm Wilder but I could totally see how people eventually get to that point. Living with such a lack of feeling makes living hard. I would drag myself out of bed, cry on the couch for most of the morning and get up in the middle of the night with enough anxiety to keep my mind worrying and spinning for hours.

I had emotionally flatlined and was scared it would only get worse from there.

40 days (cue the wilderness reference) after Wilder was born, I had a panic attack. A panic attack that literally sent me to my knees and had me begging for life. It was a Sunday morning and Hudson was out duck hunting, so he had been gone since 4 am and wouldn’t be back until afternoon. I was sitting in our living room with Wilder, depressed with dried tears all over my face and he wouldn’t stop crying. It could have been my lack of milk supply or a growth spurt, but he had been wailing on and off for hours. After the first hour, I started getting very irritable and impatient. I tried my deep breathing...I tried listening to my favorite music...I tried praying and a handful of other things but nothing would make the hopeless thoughts in my head go away. I finally let out a scream so loud that I swear it shook the house. That's when the knees buckled and I ultimately cracked. WIDE OPEN. I laid there on the floor holding a terrified baby and barely supporting a more terrified mom. I truly feel that that was the day I had a choice. I could try once more to push through on my own and hope that my scary and desperate thoughts didn’t intensify, or I could get the therapy, support, and medication I needed.

I’m so, so grateful I chose the latter.

A few minutes later, I called my midwife and she called in the medication she had been assuring me I needed since my six-week checkup when I failed the postpartum questionnaire. My sweet husband set me up with a therapist who specializes in somatic therapy dealing with postpartum trauma and I was able to work through all the shit I’d been keeping locked away. I started saying yes to friends offering to get me out of the house and to get me back to doing the things that I knew would eventually bring me joy. And we eventually decided to move closer to family - which has been such a blessing.

It was a few months of two steps forward, one step back days and I’m not going to lie and say that there aren’t days I still get a little down or anxious. After all, motherhood, in general, is not a cakewalk. But I can assure anyone, who is going through something on the postpartum spectrum, that YOU WILL GET BETTER. You will laugh again. You will see beauty again. You will love again. And you will even cry again because you can’t believe how blessed you are to be a mother. Don’t ever be ashamed to ask for help when things gets hard.

I can honestly say that I am more empathetic and lead a more enhanced life because of my struggle with postpartum depression and anxiety (never thought I’d utter those words). There is not a day that goes by that I am not grateful to be alive and well and I try not to take the little things for granted. However, a lot of women still choose to remain silent about their postpartum experience. I think it’s because we, as humans, don’t like to come across as weak, and being vulnerable is so much harder than keeping things inside. So, my hope in writing this is that it will inspire others to share their stories and to be a light of hope to anyone out there dealing with similar issues.

So much love and gratitude to my steadfast husband, our selfless families, and incredible friends. You all know who you are and I owe my life to you. Truly.

It may be warm and safe.
inside our shells.
but if we never break.
we might never know.
what we could be.
so maybe people are doing us.
a favor.
when they crush our defenses.
for that’s how.
a soul becomes free
K. Tolnoe