Becoming a mother is, hands down, the most beautiful thing that has ever happened to me. Until I actually experienced it for myself I was never able to grasp the depth of that love. I get it now. I totally get it now.

But this blog is not about the beautiful parts of motherhood, even though, in retrospect, every part was beautiful in its own way.  This blog is about postpartum depression. It's probably going to get pretty ugly, so if you're not up for it, I suggest you move along. When I prepare to write a blog, I always consider the purpose of what I plan to write. The purpose of this one is simply to tell my story. It's probably similar to some you've read. My prayer for this blog is that it reaches that one mother who may need to hear that she isn't alone. Whoever you are, this one is for you...

Emma's birth was a complete whirlwind. Bedrest for a month. Preeclampsia at 36 weeks. Failed Induction. Emergency C-Section. I don't know when I actually got to lay eyes on my baby and I still don't remember a lot about those days in the hospital.  When we finally got home, life really was grand. We had this baby that we had planned for and dreamed about. She was perfect in every single way. I can't remember how far in to motherhood I was when the PPD hit me, but it wasn't very far. It started gradually. The recovery from my emergency C was rough and painful. I struggled from the start with breast feeding, which is something I knew I wanted to do. We were busting out of our tiny house and preparing to house hunt. Bradley was barely a year in at his newly co-founded company. I had decided to leave my teaching position after 9 very hard-earned years.

I wouldn't describe it as a bomb dropping on me, because it wasn't that intense, but it was like land mines going off here and there. I cried for no apparent reason. I ignored phone calls. I distanced myself from my inner circle, my husband included. I pretended we lived this perfect life. I pretended.

My baby was not thriving from my breast milk, so we began supplementing with formula. Failure at my natural-given ability.  Work required Bradley to travel more often. I can't hack it alone. Emma constantly received the "under weight" trophy after every single doctor visit. Fail. Fail. Fail. I am not good enough.

It kept on like this for a few months. I told myself I was coping. Coping meant treating my husband like a stranger when he came home. Coping meant finishing that bottle of wine when I shouldn't have. Coping meant yelling and screaming at God for all of these emotions that felt so wrong.

I can't tell you when the turnaround point was. I wish I could. At a certain point I felt safe enough to share a tenth of my feelings with my 2 best friends in the world. Conveniently, those 2 best friends had birthed their children 2 weeks before and 2 weeks after Emma, respectively. Maybe because they are my best friends, or maybe because they are just mothers, they didn't shun me. As a matter of fact, they embraced me.

I am not a medical professional. I am not a mental health professional. I hold EXACTLY ZERO degrees in either field. Before PPD I was a teacher, a fiancé, a hopeful wife waiting for a perfect stint at motherhood.  After PPD I am a MOTHER, a WIFE, a DAUGHTER, a FRIEND, a CHILDREN's PASTOR. I survived.

If you are that mom that needs to hear this, then HEAR this....

-It will get better.
-Tell your doctor about how you are feeling. It isn't weird. It's normal. You've birthed a child. Your body and mind will NEVER be the same. Don't expect it to be.
-It is tempting to shut yourself off from the world. Do that if you need to. But then crawl out. Tell someone (mom, friend, pastor, ME) how you are feeling.
-Know that PPD doesn't just go away. It will always be there. After Adley was born (not that it is anyone's beeswax, but via a much smoother, planned C-section), the PPD was probably worse. I was more successful with nursing, she slept better, she was just a GOOD baby...and it still crept in.
-Bow, Bow, Bow at the feet of Jesus.