A story of postpartum struggle, second chances, and becoming the mom I didn't think I could be
When Caleb was a newborn, I struggled immensely.
I got angry during the night feedings. I cried as much as he did. I didn’t hold him as often as I should have. And that big, overwhelming love you always hear about? I didn’t feel it right away. My love for him came later—slowly, steadily, like a sunrise you don’t notice until everything’s light.
For a few weeks, I was deep in unmedicated Postpartum Depression. I vividly remember one night: crying on the couch, telling my mom and Jerry that I just couldn’t do it. My mom looked at me and said, “Well… you can’t put the baby back.” That was that.
So when I kept hearing that going from one to two kids was the hardest transition, I braced myself. I imagined a nightmare. My first newborn experience had been so brutal—would it happen again? Would I fall apart? Would I feel angry, sleep-deprived, broken all over again?
But then Holden arrived.
He was placed on my chest, still slippery and seconds old. And I loved him. Instantly. I spoke to him. I smiled. There are pictures from those first moments, and you can see it all over my face—joy, relief, wonder. With Caleb, those first photos show me grimacing in pain. That birth was harder. That transition was harder. This time, everything felt different. This time, I was ready.
After Caleb was born, I swore I’d never do it again. I was traumatized by the delivery and the exhaustion that followed. But after Holden? I was already missing it. I found myself crying—not because I was broken, but because I didn’t want this to be my last baby. I’d catch myself just staring at him, holding him close. “What are you doing—just looking at him?” Jerry asked one day. I smiled and nodded.
Still, there were cracks.
While we were still in the hospital, Jerry brought up my previous experience with PPD to my doctor. They talked about warning signs and next steps. I barely listened—I was so sure I wouldn’t feel that way again.
Then came our first night home. And I broke down.
I cried, hard, for no reason I could name. I told Jerry I just wanted to feel normal again. Thankfully, my medical team was incredible. When a nurse called to check in and I started sobbing, she immediately contacted both my OB and my primary care office. Within an hour, they were calling me. I had an appointment the next day. A slight medication adjustment was all it took. Whether it was just the baby blues or the early signs of something more, it passed within days—not weeks.
The truth is, I made a lot of mistakes with Caleb. I didn’t know what I was doing. I was exhausted. I felt like a zombie. I didn’t read. I didn’t clean. I barely functioned. My mom did our dishes and laundry. I watched late-night TV and cried in the dark while the baby cried too. I lost myself completely. Slowly, I came back. He started sleeping. I started reading. I returned to work. I adjusted. I wasn’t a confident mom, but I was a mom.
This time? It’s been better. Not perfect, not easy—but better.
The transition to two kids is hard. They often need something at the same time. I worry if Caleb’s getting enough of me. I feel torn in two. But I’m managing. And for now—while I’m still on leave, while my mom is helping—it’s going smoother than I ever expected.
When my OB asked how it was going, I said Holden was an easier baby. He smiled and said, “Maybe he’s easier… or maybe he’s your second baby, and you know what you’re doing now. And he can feel that.”
Perspective.
This time, I feel like a mom. And I have, from the very beginning.
I knew what to expect. I knew what sleep deprivation would feel like. I knew that crying doesn’t last forever. That I wouldn’t break him. That I wouldn’t break, either. I’m still tired—but I’m not lost. I’m reading. I’m doing dishes. I’m cleaning and decorating. I feel like a mom now, yes… but I still feel like me.
I didn’t disappear this time.
And yet, as grateful as I am for that, I also carry guilt. Guilt over how I handled things with Caleb. Guilt over my anger, my distance, my exhaustion. But I know now that I was doing the best I could. I know now that those early struggles taught me how to be better. They taught me patience. They taught me that the hard parts end. That the crying slows. That the baby grows.
And that I grow too.
Caleb was the one who made me “Mom.” He was the one who taught me how to do this. I think if he knew, he’d understand.
Right now, Caleb is playing on the floor, and Holden is sleeping peacefully in his swing. I’m calm. I’m rested enough. In a few minutes, one of them will need me—or both of them will. But for now, I’m soaking in this quiet scene: my two boys, happy and content.
And me—right here in the middle of it, no longer lost.
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