There was a quiet in the room, one that deafened me each time I rocked her. I would shake my leg out of anxiety, rock back and forth, and pray for sleep to come so that I could place her down and walk away.
Motherhood did not come easily.
She was safe in her crib, away from me and my thoughts. Away from the horrid job I was doing as a new mother who’s only thoughts were escaping the new role she was given as a gift, something I should have been enjoying with everything in me.
But there was only darkness.
Fear crept over me with every new milestone and I begged for her to stay small so that I could start over, love her more, try harder. I prayed for her to stop rolling, crawling, walking, talking. There would be time for that…
When I was a good mom.
When I learned to play, smile, laugh, giggle, and throw her high in the sky with abandon.
But time marched on and my battle got harder.
The darkness got thicker and my heart grew heavier, I cried louder and longer, shrunk inwards away from my little family, and went through the motions.
I showered when I had to, not because I wanted to, I contemplated ending my life, I wrote letters to my family and to myself about how horrible a mother I was.
I didn’t deserve happiness.
I was sure.
Until I discovered I was the face of Postpartum Depression.
There were answers to what I was going through and other women had experienced exactly the same things I was.
There was hope.
There would be light.
So putting one foot in front of the other I began to fight. I fought for my family. I fought for my daughter.
I fought for myself.
Now, four years later, I WAS the face of Postpartum Depression.
Now I’m the face of healing.
Of a warrior.
Of a mother.