07/15/2025
My Story: Surviving Postpartum Depression, Anxiety, and Psychosis
Trigger warning: mention of su***de
Dan and I married in August 2011, right after I landed my dream job as a labor and delivery nurse. We'd dreamed of having kids since we met, so naturally we started trying right away.
But months passed. Then years. Still no baby. We went from hope to heartbreak, over and over. We saw fertility specialists, endured many tests, needles, ultrasounds, bloodwork and none of it gave us any answers. We were young and healthy—infertility wasn't supposed to be apart of our story.
Finally in 2013, a new medication combination finally brought those perfect pink lines we'd been praying so long for. However our joy was short lived- we miscarried, twice. The first miscarriage happened on my 26th birthday and our second miscarriage happened on our 2nd wedding anniversary. Then in October, just weeks after a D&C, we got pregnant a third time. This time though all the tests showed a healthy and growing baby. Still, we held our breath, wondering if we'd finally get to hold our child.
My pregnancy progressed and was “textbook” perfect. I had planned for a natural birth, with Dan announcing the gender of our precious rainbow baby. Throughout my pregnancy I would often find myself daydreaming of the first time I’d get to hold my baby and finally feel that rush of emotions I have seen countless moms experience after giving birth- I just couldn’t wait to be a mom.
On July 1, 2014, after some unexpected complications, Molly Mae Brown entered the world weighing in at 8lbs 4oz. The delivery was traumatic- nothing like I had imagined. I lost a significant amount of blood, leaving me feeling weak and exhausted. When the nurses placed her on my chest—I felt nothing. No rush of emotions, no joy, no “love at first sight” that I heard SO many others talk about. I felt empty, exhausted, and thankfulit was over.
Everyone I had talked to expressed overwhelming love you after the birth of a child. A magical moment of instant connection between a mom and a new child…well that was not my experience. The day Molly arrived, I became a person I did not recognize.
The hospital photos tell a lie. I smiled for the pictures, and forced myself to put on makeup and pretend like everything was perfect. I was a labor nurse- the coworkers were my friends, I didn’t want them to see me struggling with something that should be so natural. I remember everyone commenting on how happy I looked, how radiant I was. But inside, I felt hollow. I was drowning in a silent panic that I couldn’t name. The bond everyone promised—the one that was supposed to hit me like lightning—never came. And I was too ashamed to admit it.
At home the spiral continued. We faced feeding challenges, physical challenges and all time emotional lows. Just two days after leaving the hospital, I started to withdrawing myself away from my family and friends. My body ached- my mind raced & my heart felt numb. I spent most of the days alone and in tears, unable to feel any joy about my new family. I confided in Dan and close family, admitting that I felt no connection with Molly — saying things like “she feels like a stranger to me”, and wishing I could go back in time. The weight of being a mom felt overwhelming, andI feared failing. My family tried to comfort me, saying it would get better with time. But the anxiety only grew. Depression started to creep in, and I doubted my ability to be a mother. I felt God had made a mistake giving me Molly. I kept thinking, maybe I made a mistake. Maybe she deserves a better mother.
Maybe this was never meant to be. These thoughts drowned out any happiness that I had. I found myself googling, in desperation things like-
“What if I never love my baby?”
“What if I always hate being a mom?”
When Molly was two weeks old, I remember holding her after a feeding and thought, “I wish I could say I love you—and mean it.” I hated myself for thinking it, more for feeling it. I was living in a nightmare that I couldn’t wake up from. My family tried to reassure me—“It’s just the baby blues.” But I knew this was different. This was darker. Every day, I prayed to feel joy again, to laugh, and to feel like myself. But the anxiety had a strong hold on me. I would sit in my room drowning in those awful "what if" thoughts. “What if I never love being a mom”, “what if I am never happy again”. I watched other mothers embrace motherhood so naturally, while I struggled with every single moment. The cruelest part? I had wanted her so badly, yet here I was, wishing it away. I had everything — a perfect baby, a loving family — yet I felt alone.
My thoughts haunted me. When Dan and my mom helped with Molly so I could rest, guilt consumed me. I lay in bed feeling like such a burden, convinced that they'd be better off without me. Sleep became impossible. My mind raced endlessly, like a hamster on a wheel. When I closed my eyes, panic would take over — rapid breathing, pounding heart, sweaty palms, and the awful nausea. No one, not even I, understood why this was happening to me.
When Molly was just weeks old, I finally reached out for help. My midwife prescribed antidepressants, and I started therapy. For a brief moment, light crept back into my world. I ventured out again, went shopping, spent time with family. My confidence, though fragile, started to return. But two weeks after a couple sleepless night that light vanished- everything shattered. The anxiety and depression came crashing back like a tidal wave. I suddenly became so nauseous I couldn't eat- not even a bite. The anxiety was restlessness that closing my eyes caused panic- making sleep again impossible. Dark thoughts about Molly and Dan consumed me. I wasn't me anymore, I was a shell of the person I once was and I was petrified of what my life was going to be like. The thoughts became louder, meaner, more twisted.
The morning of August 14, my mind spun in a direction that was not only scary but dangerous. The lines between reality and nightmare blurred. I started hearing voices & began talking to a man in the wall. I was convinced God was punishing me for not following his timing when it came to getting pregnant and for taking medications to assist in getting g pregnant. The man I was speaking with had me thinking that death was the only escape and I had to save myself and Molly from going against the plan God had intended for us. When my mom found me that morning she knew that what I was going through was way beyond what they could handle at home and it was a desperate cry for help. I needed more help than their love alone could give. She was directed to bring me to the ER right away- I was experiencing Postpartum Psychosis- an illness even I had never even heard of before, despite years of working in the Maternity unit.
I stayed in the hospital for two weeks. The first part of that stay, I couldn’t bear to hear Molly’s name. I didn’t want to talk about her or hear about her because in my fractured mind, she was the source of my pain. I felt unworthy of her, ashamed, unfixable. But slowly—the fog began to lift. The new medications started to help and sleep was vital to my recovery.
I’ll never forget when a psychiatrist in the hospital said me, “I’m sorry you are going through this, you are not alone, I just don’t know how to help.” Excuse me? What? I remember immediately calling Dan crying- telling him that I was never going to get better because the doctors didn’t know of any resources for me. Dan reassured me that he would do whatever it took to get me back- and he lived up to that promise. Dan and our family did research, talked to others who had lived through something similar and they were there everyday providing me with comfort and support.
The healing came slowly, like sun breaking through clouds. First, I started asking Dan about Molly, wanting to see photos of her. Then came the day I finally held her in the hospital - her tiny bow, her fresh baby smell, every detail etched in my memory. I felt grateful knowing my family had surrounded her with the love she deserved while I fought for my life. Recovery wasn't easy, I had some good days and bad days, but I continued to put in the work & before I knew it the good days were outnumbered by the bad.
After discharge, I took my meds, went to therapy, and learned to be a mom. Through therapy, I found my voice and learned that taking care of myself wasn't selfish - it was necessary. I remember my therapist encouraging me to celebrate the small victories- whether it was something has simple as reading a magazine to Molly, taking a shower, or eating a healthy snack- there was no victory was too small. And sure enough little by little things started to fall i to place.
Yes, that hospital visit terrified me, but it changed everything. It saved more than my life — it gave me Molly. Now, ten years later, Molly isn’t just my daughter. She’s my best friend. My sunshine. My second chance. She’s proof that love doesn’t always come easily—but that doesn’t make it any less real or powerful when it finally does. Through her, I learned I'm stronger than I ever imagined and now, what once healed me helps me heal others.
Please—if you’re struggling, don’t wait. Don’t suffer in silence.
There is help. There is hope.
❤️Postpartum Support International offers free, nonjudgmental support for parents around the world.
Visit: www.postpartum.net
💜Need immediate help?
Call or text the National Maternal Mental Health Hotline 24/7 at 1-833-943-5746.
No diagnosis is needed. Just reach out. You’re not alone.
✨You are worthy of healing.
✨You are not broken.
✨This is only one chapter—not the end of your story.
✨Brighter pages are still being written.
