I’m incredibly lucky to have two amazing daughters who truly bring joy to my life. That’s not to say I don’t lose my temper, make mistakes, or raise my voice—because I absolutely do… daily. But no matter how messy the day gets, I end each one feeling most grateful for them.
That said, this blog is about being real. And the truth is, motherhood is hard. It’s hard all on its own—but throw in work, health struggles, and the absence of a support system, and it can feel nearly impossible.
After my first daughter was born, I dealt with postpartum depression. At the time, I told myself it was manageable with therapy—and maybe it was, to a degree. But looking back, I realize it was more intense than I admitted. What I really struggled with was medical anxiety, which has always been my kryptonite. It could completely take over my body: shaking, vomiting, diarrhea—all at once. My mind would go foggy, like I could feel my brain being flooded with stress chemicals. I wasn’t in control.
My first was sick constantly as a baby. She was in daycare, and I know kids are expected to catch things—but it was excessive. She had so many chest X-rays in her first few months that we eventually switched daycares. For the record, always trust your gut, moms. I had doubts about that place from the beginning, and I wish I had listened to myself sooner. The new daycare wasn’t a cure-all, but the constant illness eased.
After my second baby, though, the depression hit hard—especially after my surgery. I would lie awake at night praying that I wouldn’t wake up. I thought maybe my kids deserved a different mom, one who wasn’t broken. That darkness followed me until six weeks postpartum, when my baby was hospitalized. Because of COVID restrictions, I was in there alone with her the whole time. Something about being the only one she could rely on snapped me out of the deepest part of my depression. I had no choice but to show up for her, moment by moment.
I remember telling my therapist during those early weeks that I didn’t feel like I wanted her. Her response was, “You don’t mean you didn’t want her—you mean you didn’t want to hold her.” I agreed, but I was scared of the response if I didn’t. But the truth is—I meant exactly what I said. And that made me feel like a monster.
I still carry guilt for those feelings. But I also understand now that trauma had hijacked my entire nervous system. It wasn’t about not loving my daughter—it was about being shattered and lost in the aftermath of everything I had gone through.
Today, I can say with my whole heart: I want her. I love her deeply. And our bond is strong. But it took time, healing, and a lot of hard moments to get here. The beginning was terrifying, but I made it through.
And if you’re reading this and feel any of these same things, please know: you’re not a monster. You’re human. You’re not alone.
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