You never quite forget the moment your world changes with the birth of your child. There’s beauty in it—raw, visceral beauty. But what no one prepares you for is the part that follows: the silence, the unravelling, the sleep deprivation, the adjustment to a new long-term reality, the darkness and joy that often come wrapped in a pastel blanket and a hospital wristband.
They call it postpartum. A term clinical enough to be whispered in brochures or quick doctor visits, but too small to hold the weight of what so many mothers experience. Throughout pregnancy (at least in the West) you get all this attention—frequent checkups, ultrasounds, advice, reassurance, celebration. The focus is on keeping both you and baby healthy as the miracle of life unfolds. But then you give birth, and at best, you’re offered a single six-week postpartum visit. After that? You’re largely left to fend for yourself.
The contrast is so jarring that it can give you emotional whiplash. Precisely when a woman is most vulnerable, when her body is healing from trauma, her hormones are surging, she’s not sleeping well, and her identity is shifting in seismic ways, the system quietly steps back. And yet, I’d argue that those early weeks and months postpartum aren’t just important—they’re crucial for a woman’s mental, emotional and physical health; all factors that contribute to a baby’s health, too.
It’s a time that demands care, support and intentional recovery. Without this, we risk losing not just our sense of self, but our sense of stability—and that can have lasting consequences for us as women, for our babies and for our families. It’s obvious that we need to do better, as a culture and as a community, at mothering the mother.
The truth behind the curtain
We’re told it should be the happiest time of our lives. We see it on Instagram—ethereal photos of Ballerina Farm mamas baking sourdough in linen aprons, smiling with newborns nestled into their arms, mountain backdrops in the distance. It’s easy to believe that this is the norm. That this is what motherhood looks like. And while for some, it is, and many of us truly hope for this sense of ethereal balance, that isn’t the case for all.
What if your postpartum story doesn’t look like that?
What if your story looks like tears that won’t stop? Like fear that won’t go away? Like a mind racing with thoughts you’re too ashamed to say out loud, or intrusive fears that you know aren’t logical but you can’t control or avoid? What if your story unfolds behind closed doors, during a global pandemic, with a baby who needs extra care and a heart that’s breaking under the weight of silence and lockdowns and loneliness?
That was my story, and to my sad surprise, the story of many other moms I know who gave birth around the commencement of COVID and all that ensued.
My postpartum battle
Postpartum depression and obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) didn’t just tiptoe into my life after childbirth—they stormed in. I was a first-time mom, already overwhelmed, and then came COVID right after giving birth. Lockdowns. Isolation. Complications with my baby’s health. Sleepless nights. A complete absence of support—no visitors, no family dinners, no “Can I hold the baby so you can rest?”
The family that wanted to be there for me was either abroad and unable to travel, or tending to seniors and (reasonably) trying to balance the chaos of COVID, limiting exposure for the most vulnerable and supporting me.
My husband was working and in an industry that was frontline. He was there as best as he could be, equally in the trenches with me while working 12-plus hour shifts at times and exhausted. Most of the time the relentless storm was inside my head, as the inertia of survival mode kept me moving forward as a parent.
And then there was social media.
The very thing that should have connected us in isolation became a magnifying glass for our inadequacies. While I was overstimulated, locked in for most of the day or just plain sleep-deprived, other moms were baking, decorating nurseries, launching Etsy shops. The filters made everything beautiful. And everything I wasn’t. And this is coming from someone who prides herself in not caring about social media that much, especially since we all know most of it is fake anyways!
It’s not that those women were wrong for sharing joy; on the contrary, motherhood should be celebrated! It’s that I believed I had to be like them to be good. To be worthy as a mom. To be enough.
I started to realize that the more I actively disconnected from the online world, the better I felt, even in the midst of all the negatives. Then I spoke to other moms and friends who had all come to the same conclusion, but felt like their online world was becoming bigger and bigger as the lockdowns loomed and alternatives (especially for those of us living in large cities) became fewer and fewer. The pull towards the “online” world was almost inevitable against this backdrop.
Stop competing and start holding space
One of the most dangerous lies of modern motherhood is that we have to perform it. That there’s a mold we must fit into, and if we don’t, we’ve failed. We measure ourselves against filtered highlight reels, forgetting that real life happens in the unfiltered moments.
It’s time to stop turning motherhood into a quiet competition.
Some moms breastfeed with ease. Some don’t. Some have thriving postpartum experiences. Some sink. And that doesn’t make one woman stronger than another. We’re not in a race. We’re in a sisterhood. We shouldn’t be comparing—we should be linking arms and acknowledging that some systems are failing us equally and that we all have crosses to bear.
We should support and encourage each other with grace, compassion and empathy; all qualities I find difficult to find amid the loud voices online that thrive off clickbait, competition and the judgment of others.
The light after the storm
Healing didn’t come easily, but it came. Slowly. Quietly. Sometimes through therapy. Sometimes through tearful prayers whispered into a dark nursery. Sometimes through a friend saying, “You’re not crazy. You’re doing great, just get through the next hour! I’ve been there, too.”
I watched as my children’s health improved in miraculous ways. My own body, once broken by anxiety and scars, began to feel whole again. These weren’t just recoveries—they were revelations. My traumas and the grief of the losses I felt during this time of turbulence, as I learned to parent, eventually brought me solace. I survived it all and eventually thrived. I learned to practice more gratitude in the place of doubt (something I still remind myself to do from time to time!).
Moreover, I began to see the hand of God again, the same God I’d forgotten to trust in my fog. I remembered the faith that once anchored me. And I ran back to Him.
She is clothed with strength and dignity, and she laughs without fear of the future.
– Proverbs 31:25
This verse became a kind of anthem in my heart—not because I always felt strong, but because I wanted to believe I could be. That I was, even in my most broken moments. That with God and the gift of faith, I didn’t have to fear what came next; that even if I felt alone, I truly wasn’t. That I could mother my children and heal myself with dignity, leaning not on my own strength, but on His.
Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.
– Matthew 11:28
This verse speaks to the exhaustion and emotional weight of postpartum life. It offers a gentle invitation from Christ to lay down our burdens and find real rest, both physical and spiritual.
Finding hope and rebuilding the village
Many of us are still dealing with the emotional repercussions of postpartum during the COVID era. The trauma is real. The grief is real. The healing isn’t always immediate (it rarely ever is) and many things do feel easier said than done. But this healing is real, and it’s attainable.
We’re building new villages—sometimes from scratch. We’re leaning into faith, into friendship, into tools that actually serve us. We’re learning to ask for help, to speak out loud the things we once kept buried. We’re telling the truth.
And that truth, as raw and painful as it is, is what sets us free.
To any mother still in the storm: Please know that there is light ahead. There is life on the other side of the pain and endless sleepless nights. There is grace, even in the mess. You’re not alone. You were never meant to walk this road alone. Find your people. Reconnect to your faith. Let others in. It all goes by so fast, those first few years of your child’s life, and all the bad also comes with glimpses of so much good, so much joy you’ll look back on fondly.
There’s no shame in struggling. But there is profound courage in healing.
Medical disclaimer: This page is for educational and informational purposes only and may not be construed as medical advice. The information is not intended to replace medical advice offered by physicians. Please refer to the full text of our medical disclaimer.
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