I’m writing for postpartum and pregnant moms everywhere. On Substack, I’ve connected with moms from Germany, Australia, the UK, India, South America, and France. We all live in totally different parts of the world. Nothing about our lives, our work (inside or outside the home), or our family dynamics are the same. But one thing we do have in common: we’re moms who are either in postpartum or have been through it.
Creating a Substack started out as a method of healing from postpartum depression and anxiety by turning back to my lifelong hobby of writing. But it has become so, so much more.
If you’re new here, hi. I’m Kristin. I’m a 7 months postpartum mom of 2 from Arkansas. My journey with my baby girl was nothing like I imagined. It was one of the hardest times of my life. I’ve written it down in My Postpartum Story: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4. If you are in the trenches, read my story. You’re not alone.
Trigger Warnings: postpartum depression, postpartum anxiety, postpartum insomnia, thoughts of despair and hopelessness – if you are triggered by any of these topics, please skip this newsletter and come back the next time. I never want to interrupt a mom’s healing journey.
I didn’t go back to church after Charlotte was born for maybe two months. I can’t really remember when I started to go back. Those first few months are just blurs of gray and sadness. It’s hard even to think back on them. But I do remember one really vivid interaction.
It might have been my very first Sunday back with the baby. I wheeled her into church in her stroller while hauling my three-year-old along by his hand. My husband is a pastor, so he had already been at church for hours. Sundays are hectic usually as I try to get myself and two kids ready for church. And this particular Sunday was so crazy because, if I remember correctly, I hadn’t slept much the night before from an insomnia spell.
But I was bound and determined to get me and the kids to church that Sunday. I had been trapped in the house for weeks, and the depression was crushing. Everything in me screamed to get out. I needed to be around people, and church has always been a really safe place for me. But by the time I had wrestled my three-year-old into church clothes, dressed my daughter, and thrown a bit of makeup on my face, I was mentally exhausted.
So when I stumbled through the door into the church building, everything inside of me was starting to crumble.
Of course, like bees to honey, everyone inside swarmed to peer into the stroller and have a peek of the new baby. (She’s pretty adorable, not gonna lie.) My son had taken off down the hall to find his daddy like a typical pastor’s kid. I knew someone would eventually grab hold of him.
Everyone in the church loves our family dearly. They were all so excited to congratulate us on our new baby. So many of them had brought us meals and diapers. I genuinely wanted to show off my beautiful girl. It didn’t bother me at all that everyone was ooo-ing and ahh-ing at her precious outfit and angel-like face.
I smiled and hugged everyone. Told everyone how wonderful of a baby she was (she really is). Everyone smiled and asked, “How’s she sleeping?” “Is she pretty calm?” “How is she eating?”
A couple walked over to me, and we chatted for a bit. The husband, (let’s call him Bob), is a big, burly man with a long beard and strong arms. He’s a mechanic by trade. If I ever got into a scrap, I’d want Bob on my side. Let’s just say that.
He looked past the baby stroller and asked, “And how’s the mama doing? No one asks about the mama.”
Hearing that question from that big, burly man made me feel seen for a moment. I had felt like a stagehand while my baby took center stage. And while I absolutely wanted her to get the attention she deserved, I didn’t realize how desperately I needed to be acknowledged, and for my pain to be brought into the light. I stammered out something about how the postpartum journey had been really hard this time around. I mentioned that I’d really struggled with PPD and PPA.
I waited for blank stares and awkward glances. But they just hugged me, and his wife told me how much she had struggled postpartum with her second. In one moment of vulnerability on my part and one simple question from him, I suddenly didn’t feel so alone.
After they had walked on, I hurried to the bathroom. In the stall, I used toilet paper to wipe the tears from my eyes. My journey had felt so impossibly dark and isolated. I felt caught in the middle of not wanting to burden anyone with my troubles and also desperately wanting someone to understand my pain.
The conversation with that couple was one of hundreds I probably had during those first few months. But I will never, ever forget it. He wasn’t a mom. He literally had no idea what I was experiencing, but he remembered his wife’s pain. And he let that mold his perspective into one where he always, always asked about the mom before the baby.
I want that to be me. I want my first words to a new mom to be, “And how’s the mama doing?”
For all of you pregnant and postpartum moms who feel like you’re isolated in the dark, I want to be here to pull you into centerstage so you can tell your story.
My inbox is always open.
Important note: I am not a licensed therapist. My experiences are lived experiences and not intended to be taken as medical or psychiatric advice. If you are in a crisis, call 988, the national suicide hotline. If you are not in a crisis, but need timely support, call or text 1-833-852-6262, the National Maternal Mental Health Hotline.
Other resources:
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