On Pregnancy (and a Baby)

So that break that I started in April.

Let me explain. I had a baby.

This spring, little Greta Lu showed up and completely rocked our world.

I thought I could use some time to adjust to the “slight” change that being a new parent can bring – and give myself a second in the last month of pregnancy to prepare for this amazing turn of events.

The following post is an overview of my story of pregnancy, and of life with a newborn. It will, in no way have anything to do with fashion, bunnies or travel. We will save that for when I can think straight again.

It will also be lengthy. But this needs to be shared by me, and heard by some.

Being pregnant was not easy for me. I was not a fan.

Physically, I had little to complain about. I was healthy and comfortable (besides the minor bouts with nausea and regular occurrences of heart burn).

It was the emotional struggle. That was the hard part.

On Instagram I was flooded daily with adorable images of my peers documenting their pregnancies. Adorned with a glowing smile complemented by their cute baby bumps, Pinterest worthy signs displaying the fruit that their baby’s size could be compared to at this stage, and loving captions doting on their unborn child.

I was not one of these people. I didn’t enjoy being pregnant. I felt no connection with the miracle growing inside me. At times, I even resented this child for stealing my old life away from me.

As I observed others’ seemingly joyous pregnancies, I felt like there was something wrong with me and that I was a terrible person for not gushing with love and excitement for this unborn baby.

I didn’t want to talk about the baby. I didn’t want people to ask about the baby. I didn’t want to be identified as a “mommy-to-be”. I hated the constant questions I was asked and the unsolicited advice I was given.

I wished I could be excited. I wished I could love the child that was growing inside me. I wished I could beam at my upcoming promotion to “mommy”. I wished I could have answered questions about my new arrival with pride – and take in all the advice I was given with true gratitude.

I wished I could be a normal pregnant woman.

My therapist told me to give myself grace, that it was okay to feel this way. That the lack of connection that I was feeling probably had a lot to do with the fact that I had no idea who this baby was – we didn’t find out gender.

I was afraid I wouldn’t love her. I was afraid we wouldn’t be able to afford her. I was plagued with the over-dramatic obsession that we wouldn’t be able to find a daycare for her and I would have to quit the job I loved to care for her. I was afraid that from now on, my only title would be “mom” and all of my other accomplishments, qualities and characteristics would vanish the moment she was born. I was scared that no one would care to hear about my passions anymore and would only want updates on the baby’s latest development milestones – further proving that my only identifier in this life from now on, would be “mom”.

On top of all this, I felt guilty for feeling this way as I was able to carry a healthy child without problems when so many others were struggling, willing to give anything to be in my position. This fact made it scarier to share these feelings – and further justified the self-declared fact that I was a terrible person.

In the first early morning hours of May 19, 2018, I woke up with contractions. 11 hours later, Greta was born. When Tom told me that we had a little girl, I was thrilled. There was real joy present although it was veiled by a thick layer of pure shock that it was over and that my baby (a she!) was really here.

The first days in the hospital were a whirlwind of visitors, vital checks and various crash courses in parenting. As we headed home, I surprised myself with the thought that I could really do this. All of that anxiety during pregnancy was for nothing.

Despite my encouraging mental state, I wanted to be prepared for an emotional crash should one come on. I was honest on my Edinburgh tests, was open with the doctors and nurses about my past with anxiety and depression and was proactive about getting medication called in.

The first week felt like a vacation. Tom took the week off so we were able to spend the first few days of Greta’s life together as a family. We took her shopping for girl clothes. We took her to a bar to celebrate our fifth wedding anniversary. We took her to the grocery store. I was further convinced that I could handle this, I had no reason to be anxious and that I had miraculously avoided Postpartum Depression.

The second week, even though Tom returned to work, I was more confident than ever that I could do this without any major roadblocks caused by mental illness.

Week three hit me out of nowhere.

I think it started with Greta’s increased level of fussiness. I assumed that with every cry, she was hungry and thus I felt confined to the couch as I fed her for what felt like 80% of my day.

It got worse when feeding her no longer did the trick – and the crying would continue. I was too scared to go anywhere with her. What if she had a meltdown and I wasn’t able to sooth her? I felt my frustration levels rising, complemented by my increasing feelings of darkness and hopelessness at this new role.

As the days went on, things didn’t get much better. I began to resent this helpless little baby for stealing my sleep, for robbing me of my freedom, for stamping “final” on the departure of my old life. Evenings brought on the worst anxiety. I was filled with dread for the end of the day as I obsessed with the unknown of how much sleep I would (or wouldn’t) get. More than anything, I wanted things to go back to the way that they were. I wanted it to be just Tom and I (and the pets of course), again.

I wasn’t naïve to the fact that this was Postpartum Depression.

I hadn’t escaped its painful grasp after all.

At the urging of my husband, family and therapist I began to seek more intense treatment. I made an appointment at a nearby clinic that specialized in the condition that I was experiencing and was evaluated for Postpartum Depression. It was no surprise to me that my results concerned the medical staff and I was invited to join an outpatient treatment group at the start of the following week.

Contrasting the wishes of my loved ones, I called the clinic on that Monday morning, the first day of treatment, and notified them that I would not be coming. I used the excuse that my baby was too young – and I would be able to take better advantage of the program once she was a bit older.

The following morning, I hit my lowest point.

I sobbed on the living room couch, begging Tom not to go to work that day. I couldn’t bare the thought of dealing with Greta for another day alone, maneuvering through the unpredictable series of events that was sure to unfold. I knew that what I was asking from him wasn’t an option, and Tom left for work. It was then that I had a sudden change of heart, brought on by prayer, no doubt. I immediately called the clinic back and asked if I was still able to join the program, and come first thing that morning to begin treatment. I was told that I would get a call back with the answer. In the meantime, I got myself ready and I got Greta ready. I loaded the car and began the drive to the facility before I got the return call. I was a few minutes into the drive when I received the callback. I was told that it wasn’t a possibility for me to join the treatment that day and that I would have to schedule a reevaluation. I hung up the phone and called Tom right away with the news, asking in desperation what I should do next.

I don’t even remember what he suggested. I remember hanging up the phone. I remember Greta starting to fuss from her car seat. I felt my anxiety level start to rise as I sensed an upcoming meltdown. I remember getting on the highway.

I cruised along the highway for a long time, heading nowhere. But suddenly, strangely, I felt at peace. Greta was silent, dozed off for a nap, and I was enjoying the radio program I would tune in to on my commute to work before she was born. I felt normal again.

Suddenly I decided to make the most of the day. To go out, with Greta in tow, despite my fears as to how she would act.

That day, we went to Starbucks, Target, a lengthy walk around the neighborhood and to the mall.

Since then, the two of us have been inseparable throughout my maternity leave. I enjoy taking her with me and showing her off, teaching her about my life and exposing her to new things.

The anxiety and depression didn’t leave completely that day, but with every activity we did together in the weeks to come, it was another accomplishment. It was another punch against the dark thoughts saying that I could never have an enjoyable life again. Little by little, I was proving these thoughts and feelings wrong.

Having a baby changes you in a lot of ways, life is completely different. Carrying my child, having her and beginning the journey of raising her has been the hardest thing I have ever done. Although I expected the emotional rough patches to emerge, I didn’t expect them to take on the shape that they did. There were days that I felt so low I had no idea how I would wake to see another sunrise – much less the next five minutes.

I wish I could go back in time – to myself several weeks ago.

I would tell her to give herself grace.

I would tell her that it is okay to feel this way.

I would tell her that she is not alone.

I would tell her that seeking help is not a sign of weakness, but a sign of strength.

I would tell her that in a few weeks time, sweet baby Greta will bless her with the most beautiful, genuine smile. A smile that although brief in time, shows enough light and provides enough encouragement so that she knows that she is loved, needed and adored by her little girl.