The Invisible Work: My Mental Health After Birth
No one warned me that I could feel so full and so empty at the same time.
There were moments I stared at her tiny face and felt the kind of love that burned through my chest.
And then, there were moments — quiet, confusing — when I stood in the shower and asked myself:
“Am I still me?”
It wasn’t sadness exactly.
It was… weight.
Like I was carrying the whole world in my arms, and still wondering where I had placed my own heart.
This is how I learned to hold myself, too:
I claimed ten quiet minutes a day — no matter what.
Sometimes it was on the bathroom floor with the lights off.
Sometimes on the balcony with tea that had gone cold.
I used a calming essential oil roller on my wrists, took three deep breaths, and whispered,
“This is hard. And I’m doing it.”
That tiny ritual — those few grounded breaths — were my invisible thread to myself.
I kept a journal — not for milestones, but for me.
Not for baby’s first smile or her sleep schedule.
But for thoughts like:
“I feel guilty for wanting a break.”
“Today, I laughed and forgot I was tired.”
Sometimes I wrote one line. Sometimes nothing. But the notebook stayed open, just in case I needed to be heard — even silently.
I muted voices that made me feel not enough.
I unfollowed the “bounce-back moms.”
I deleted apps for a few days.
Instead, I followed a page that shared affirmations for new mothers, and one podcast that made me laugh.
I gave myself permission to curate peace.
I made a mental health basket.
Next to the diapers and wipes, I had one just for me:
A lavender eye pillow, herbal tea, an audiobook I loved, dark chocolate, and a permission slip (yes, I wrote one) that said:
“You’re allowed to rest even when the baby naps. The dishes can wait.”
There was one night — 4AM, lights dim, her soft breathing filling the room — when I cried into my nursing pillow.
Not from pain. Not even from sadness.
Just from everything.
And after the tears came silence. And in that silence, I felt it:
I’m still here.
Maybe softer. Maybe stretched.
But still me.
Mental health in motherhood doesn’t always look like breakdowns.
Sometimes it looks like putting your phone down.
Or drinking a glass of water slowly.
Or texting a friend:
“Hey, I love being a mom. But today is heavy. Can you just say something funny?”
So if you’re here, quietly carrying more than anyone sees —
This is your reminder:
You are not failing.
You are feeling.
And that’s not weakness — that’s motherhood, honestly lived.