The night it all began: a look back at the start of my postpartum anxiety

Baby girl was born at 11:37 p.m. on October 12th. The moments right after her birth were quiet—eerily peaceful, really. I was still lying on the bed I delivered on, my body heavy with relief. Every limb melted into the mattress as if exhaling after holding tension for months. We have a daughter. We kept saying it out loud to believe it.

I’ll never forget when the nurse placed her on my chest and instinctively helped her latch for the first time. It was like she already knew what to do. I was in awe. That moment—our very first feeding—was the first of many times my baby would teach me something profound.

But even as I was wrapped in the beauty of it all, a quiet thought kept looping in my mind: I’m a mom now. Oh my God. I am now a mom. Sometimes it sounded full of joy, other times filled with fear. A whisper of anxiety had started, but I didn’t recognize it then.

When the nurse finally asked if I was ready to head to our postpartum room, I nodded—still in a daze. My husband held her as the nurse pulled back the blanket, and that’s when I saw it: blood-soaked sheets. I was stunned. What the hell just happened to me? I had just lived through it all, but seeing the aftermath made my stomach turn. 

And then—a wheelchair? I laughed nervously. How do moms just...get into a wheelchair after that kind of battlefield down below? Spoiler: not gracefully. It was slow, it was painful, and it was humbling.

Once we got to the postpartum room, I cleaned up as best I could, eased into bed, and tried to settle in. My husband, lucky guy, had a full bed to himself and passed out quickly—exhausted from his labor experience. Baby girl was in the clear bassinet beside me. It was well after 2 a.m., maybe even 3. Time had lost all meaning.

But I couldn’t sleep.

Every time I closed my eyes, my brain screamed: Is she breathing? Did she roll over? Wait, was that a sound—does she need to feed again?
The chatter in my head was constant. I could hear babies crying from other rooms—loud, urgent, real—but my girl remained mostly calm. She’d fuss, and I’d immediately respond, almost too fast. There was no filter, no pause between her cue and my need to fix it.

Around 4 or 5 a.m., the parade of unwanted visitors began. Nurses we didn’t know came in to take her for heel pricks and labs. It felt rushed and impersonal. After the first one, my husband stepped in and told them to come back. We need sleep, he said. My hero.

I watched my little love cry from that first prick and felt like I shattered. A single cry was enough to send me spiraling. I didn’t realize it then, but that moment was the true beginning of my postpartum anxiety. Her cry wasn’t just a sound—it was a trigger. It was nails on a chalkboard, a gut punch, a sharp corner in my brain that sent me spiraling into worry and guilt.

Eventually, the hallway grew quiet again. Visitors stopped. My eyes burned from fatigue and finally, exhaustion overpowered my anxious thoughts. I looked over at my girl one last time and whispered, “Goodnight, baby girl. Mama loves you.” Then, I let myself sleep.

Looking back now, I see it all so clearly. That first night was not just my first night as a mama—it was also my first brush with the anxiety that would follow me for months. I thought it was just new-mom nerves. I thought it was just part of being “on alert.” But no. It was more than that.

I just didn’t have the words for it yet.