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I had pictured my first birth perfectly: a calm, all-natural water birth where I would hold my baby immediately, soaking in that first connection. I was twenty-six, full of hope and excitement. But life had other plans. My water broke at 2:10 p.m. one Thursday, and by the next day, I was being rushed into an emergency C-section. My body simply wouldn’t deliver.
When my son was born, my husband held him first. I managed a quick kiss before being taken away to recovery. I didn’t hold my own baby until hours later. Some might say it didn’t matter, but for me, it left a lingering sense of loss a small gap in that first bond that I’ve never forgotten.
The weeks after were a blur. I assumed my tears and exhaustion were just part of being a new mom juggling work. I was tired of being sad or happy n=in next moment then I remember it’s my first motherhood stage so its happen. But soon I realized something was wrong. I couldn’t stop crying, and no matter what my husband said, I felt inadequate. One afternoon in my mom’s kitchen, I broke down completely. She was the first to gently suggest that I speak with a doctor.
Visiting my nurse practitioner was humbling. I felt like I should be able to handle this after all, I was a social worker, trained to help others. Tests revealed my thyroid levels were off, and with some medication adjustments and an antidepressant, I slowly began to regain balance.
Fast forward a few years. My husband and I were ready for another child, and I carefully stopped my medication during pregnancy. Then I stop taking my medicine of thyroid when I got to know about my second baby. Everything seemed fine until, at eighteen weeks, I went into labor. Panic set in. We rushed to the hospital, unsure if our baby would survive. My husband squeezed my hand as we waited for the ultrasound, tears streaming down both our faces. Went into early labor which was so scared.
We discovered that my cervix had opened far too early. Medications and positioning were used to try to save the pregnancy, but nothing could stop the inevitable. On January 6th, 2013, our son Jacob was born at twenty weeks perfect, tiny, and fragile. He lived for just two and a half hours. Holding him in my arms, hearing my husband’s voice as he responded, I felt a profound heartbreak that words cannot capture. Through this time Jacob always hold a place in our heart.
Returning home was one of the hardest experiences of my life. I struggled with despair and intrusive thoughts, barely leaving my bed. I felt invisible and disconnected from everyone, including my older son. It took time, therapy, and medication adjustments to regain stability, but eventually, I found a way to function again. Felt lost healed slowly from heart.
A year later, we became pregnant once more. I was terrified throughout the pregnancy, under strict medical supervision. Bed rest became my reality, yet we endured. On December 8th, 2014, we welcomed our daughter via C-section. Hearing her cry and holding her safely in my arms was a moment of relief and joy I had feared I’d never experience. After so many fear and struggles our daughter come back safely. Being prepared, and resuming my mental health care, made this experience profoundly different. She comes home safely full with joy even ouir home too.
Through it all, I’ve learned that it is okay to ask for help, to accept support, and to care for your mental health. Life will bring heartbreak, but leaning on those you trust can make the journey bearable. If you are struggling, speak up, reach out, and take the steps to care for yourself. You deserve to heal, to love, and to live fully. It ok if you ask for help mean you do care for yourself because you deserve happiness and a lovely life.
