You wake before dawn, the baby asleep on your chest in fragments of doze and wakefulness. The house is still, but your mind is already racing. You lie there trying to steady your breath, but the heaviness in your chest feels too familiar. You’ve slept maybe two hours total, and already the questions start looping: Is she breathing okay? Did I feed her enough? What if something’s wrong and I don’t notice?
This is the part of motherhood no one really talks about — the space between exhaustion and panic, when the world is quiet, and you’re wide awake, holding everything together.
You move through the motions of the morning: changing diapers, warming bottles, soothing cries. Your body aches in ways you didn’t expect. The incision tugs when you stand, your pelvis feels unstable, and your breasts ache and leak. You catch your reflection in the mirror and barely recognize yourself. Puffy eyes. Hollow cheeks. A version of you that feels lost between who you were and who you’re supposed to be now.
You Feel Yourself to Unraveling
By midmorning, your partner is at work, and the quiet feels too loud. You cradle your baby and hum softly, but tears still come — hot, unexpected, and full of shame. You tell yourself to stop crying, to pull it together. You tell yourself other moms handle this just fine. But inside, you feel like you’re unraveling.
You stay busy — folding laundry, loading the dishwasher, scrolling your phone — but your heart won’t slow down. You can’t stop checking things, can’t stop the what-ifs.What if something happens to her? What if something happens to you? What if you never feel like yourself again?
You need more connection
When a friend texts, “How are you?” you hesitate. You want to say, “We’re doing great,” but instead you write, “It’s been a hard day.” She offers to bring lunch. You almost say no because you don’t want her to see the mess, the tears, or the fear. But you say yes anyway. When she comes, she doesn’t try to fix you. She just hugs you, holds the baby, and reminds you that you’re not alone. For a moment, you feel seen — and you realize how deeply lonely you’ve been.
Later that night, you wonder if this is still “normal,” or if it’s something more. You open your phone and search for postpartum therapist Virginia, postpartum therapist Maryland, or postpartum therapist DC. You scroll through pages until one catches your eye — a therapist who helps moms with postpartum anxiety, depression, and the feeling of being completely overwhelmed. The words describe exactly what you’ve been living, even the parts you haven’t said out loud.
Something inside you shifts. Maybe this is your enough. Maybe it’s time for help.