What I Wish I Had Known About Postpartum: 27 Years Later

A Career I Loved — and a Ticking Clock

I became a mother at 26 — only a handful of years into my career and doing work that truly mattered to me.

I had landed a job I loved. I felt capable, energized, and proud — like I was stepping into something important, something that fit. When I found out I was pregnant, I was determined to do everything “right.” I immediately began saving every vacation and sick day I could. There was no paid maternity leave. No policy. No safety net. Just a countdown clock and the quiet pressure — mostly internal — to somehow manage it all.

The Crying, the Silence, and the Shame

Then my daughter was born.

And she was perfect. I was so thrilled to have a healthy, beautiful baby girl.

But soon after bringing her home, she started to cry every day in the late afternoon and didn’t stop until after midnight. For the first six weeks of her life, she cried every single day. When you’re in the middle of it, you don’t know when it’s going to end. There’s no light at the end of the tunnel — it feels interminable.

So, every evening, my husband and I became experts in the art of soothing: we danced to Janet Jackson with her, took her on late-night drives, and even put her car seat on top of the dryer — anything to calm her down. Some of it worked for a little while, but inevitably, the crying came back with a vengeance. Exhausted and desperate, we were both rocking her until she finally fell asleep — utterly spent.

Every single day, I felt anxious and watched the clock, dreading the inevitable “witching hour.” I started to wonder if I knew what the hell I was doing as a mom.

The hardest part wasn’t just the crying or the sleepless nights. It was the silence. I actually knew other moms with babies, but no one was talking about this. Not the self-doubt. Not the feeling that maybe I wasn’t cut out for motherhood after all. We talked about feeding schedules and baby gear — not the shame, not the anger, not the loneliness that crept in when the house went quiet and I was still wide awake, holding the weight of it all.

Looking “Fine” While Falling Apart

Right around when her crying phase was ending, I had to return to work — sleep-deprived and emotionally spent — and was immediately handed a promotion. No raise. Just more responsibility. On paper, it looked like success. In reality, it felt like collapse.

The Childcare Rollercoaster

During my time off, we had to find childcare. We chose a woman down the street who ran a licensed in-home daycare. It seemed like a safe, smart choice, close to home. But when I stopped by unannounced one day, I found my infant daughter alone, asleep in a swing, slumped forward in a dirty diaper. The provider was in the basement putting away winter coats. She offered no apology.

I took my daughter home and never went back.

Next came a warm, loving caregiver — but she ignored my requests to avoid honey in my daughter’s food. “You young moms read too many books,” she told me, brushing off my concern.

Eventually, we enrolled in a daycare center — structured, professional, staffed with multiple caregivers and security cameras — and the price tag that reflected it. But my daughter was sick nearly every week. By her first birthday, she’d had so many ear infections that she needed surgery to place tubes in her ears. Not long after that, my husband and I made a decision I never thought I would: I left my job to stay home with her.

Lonely, Grieving, and Guilt-Ridden

That’s when the real loneliness set in.

Suddenly, my days revolved around play kitchens, tea parties, and alphabet puzzles. I read to her, played educational games, taught her how to count in other languages. I poured everything I had into giving her a rich, loving start.

And still — I felt hollow.

Playing pretend for hours on end was mind-numbing. I missed adult conversation. I missed thinking critically, solving problems, feeling intellectually alive. I had left a job I loved — one that made me feel capable and impactful. I understood that getting to stay home with my daughter was a privilege that many women don’t have, and for that I was deeply grateful. But every choice has its cost. 

Even then, I didn’t really tell my husband how bad it felt. I felt like he had his job, and I had mine — and I needed to handle mine the best way I could.

What I didn’t have the words for then — but I do now — was this:

There was grief for my own intellectual and emotional needs. And guilt for feeling that grief.

It’s so important to name this.

Because you can be doing beautiful, intentional things with your child — and still feel deeply unfulfilled in parts of yourself. You can love your child completely and still long for adult connection, stimulation, identity. That longing doesn’t mean you’re ungrateful or failing. It just means you’re human.

What I Know Now, 27 Years Later

Looking back — 27 years later — I don’t regret my choices. But I do regret how I treated myself.

I wish I had spoken more openly to my husband. I wish I had told the truth to my friends. I wish I had asked for help sooner — and given myself permission to fall apart.

Holding it all in didn’t just hurt me — it did no favors for my daughter, either.

I thought staying silent was strength, but what she really needed was a mother who could be honest, ask for help, and model self-compassion.

Taking care of myself would have been one of the best ways to take care of her.

You’re Not Alone

I share this now, decades later, because these stories still matter. Because too often, we only tell the pretty parts — the tidy highlights. And the rest, the real stuff, gets pushed down and hidden away. Maybe if we told the truth more freely, more often, someone else wouldn’t feel so alone.

So I’ll ask you:

Did you ever feel this way too?

Did you carry more than anyone saw?

Did you stay silent when you needed support?

Did you think needing help meant you weren’t doing it right?

Let’s start telling the truth. Let’s stop pretending we have to be everything to everyone, all the time.

You are not failing.

You are not broken.

You are not alone.

You are enough.

And you don’t have to do this alone anymore.