I had a breakdown last week. It hit me like a wake-up call: I haven’t been taking care of myself. Over the last few years, I felt stable and took it for granted. Part of me thought I didn’t need help anymore. I still took my medication, but I assumed I could manage without struggle. I had wandered back into denial about my depression.
I have struggled with depression and anxiety on and off for ten years. Pregnancy and postpartum have always been the hardest times. I felt it during my first pregnancy or at least, a time when starting a family was supposed to be joyous. But instead, I was blindsided: my brain twisted my thoughts, convincing me I was incompetent, unworthy, and doomed to misery. The overwhelming feelings were impossible to fight off. Everyday tasks—going to work, cooking dinner, even finishing graduate school assignments—felt impossible. I was mentally and physically drained.
Thankfully, my husband was supportive, and he did everything to make life easier. He listened and did not judge me. My OB/Gyn diagnosed me with depression and prescribed antidepressants. I was terrified to take them, worried about harming my baby. But my doctor explained that leaving depression untreated carried risks too. Gradually, the medication helped me regain some balance. I wasn’t perfect, but I could function.
Now, years later, having finished my family, I have struggled to readjust my mental health support. I’d been on the same medications for four years with no changes, and therapy had fallen by the wayside. I stopped meds for a bit, thinking I could cope on my own. I was wrong.
Last week, I sensed that something was wrong. Without any apparent reason, I was sad, unmotivated, and stressed all the time. And I couldn’t sleep. Anxiety and depression slowly crept in, it seemed, overnight, and I never felt like I could unwind. I grew irritable with my husband and children. Not sometimes frustrated, but all of the time. My children began to apologize for asking me questions, fearing they might upset me. Every task overwhelmed me; our routines fell apart.
We had just relocated to a new city. The transition proved to be more difficult than expected. My husband’s new job included a lot of travel, the kids had heavier school schedules, and our house seemed to have a never-ending list of issues to sort out. Not to mention my son’s ongoing medical appointments and treatments-therapy for a tongue tie, a possible surgery, questions about insurance-and it all felt like a pressure cooker ready to pop. A minor miscommunication at lunchtime at school tipped the scale, and I finally cracked.
I cried until I was physically sick, the weight of it all overwhelming. Constant thoughts like, “You are failing your family. You’re only holding them back,” consumed me. Even in that despair, I knew one thing for sure: I needed help.
So, with the counselor that I finally found, I got an appointment for the next day. It was a relief. My husband supported me every step of the way. With guidance, I scheduled a psychiatrist to adjust my medications, knowing my body might need something different after years on the same dose. I finally understood that I did not have to tough it out. Asking for help is not a weakness; accepting support allows me to make my life better and eventually be the mother and wife I want to be.
Medication and therapy won’t “cure” depression; they just help me manage it. But self-care is what makes all the difference. I’m committing to exercise, therapy, journaling, and doing things I enjoy. Self-care isn’t selfish; it’s essential. When I’m at my best, my family benefits too. Whenever things feel unbearable you’re not alone. I’m here too, right in the middle of it all, holding on to the hope that things will get better. I learn to find my footing again with support, planning and self-care-even when depression and anxiety knock me down.
