As a new mother, what business did I have with grief? I held my little bundle of joy in my arms, the latest addition to our family of two. I had been blessed with a miracle that so many other women prayed for. Yet, as I sat on my hospital bed, just one-day post-op after my elective C-section, tears filled my eyes and a heaviness settled in my heart.
My baby hadn’t slept since the surgery. I remembered my mother’s reassuring words, “Don’t worry, they always sleep through their first night.” But not my daughter. She stayed awake, crying because she was hungry, and I couldn’t produce a single drop of milk. The small 30ml of ready-to-feed formula the nurses provided wasn’t enough, and she protested fiercely. What was going on?
When I managed to rock her to sleep, the moment I tried placing her in her crib, she would wake up screaming. It felt like I couldn’t do anything right. The next morning, a doctor came by during rounds and, noticing my gloomy expression, asked what was wrong. “The baby won’t sleep, and I’m exhausted,” I told him. But instead of empathy, he raised his voice. “Are you really trying to put her down so you can sleep? She wants to lie on your chest! For nine months, she’s heard your heartbeat—that’s what she needs right now!”
First of all, where was my regular doctor, the one who had been with me throughout my entire pregnancy? And while I understood what this doctor was saying, couldn’t he have said it more kindly? Also, did this mean I would never get to sleep? After enduring such a rough pregnancy, all I wanted was just a few hours of rest before starting this new chapter. Was that too much to ask?
I felt like a child being scolded. I was so embarrassed that I couldn’t hold back my tears.
From that moment, everything changed. I felt like I had lost myself and didn’t know where to begin finding my way back. I was functioning on autopilot. Unsolicited advice came from every direction. Everyone seemed to know what I should be doing and how I should be doing it. Yet, everyone seemed to forget about the mother. All focus was on the baby.
Even my husband, overwhelmed by the demands of caring for a newborn, began to show signs of stress. It felt like we were both sinking, each trying to survive in our own way. And with every passing day, I felt myself slipping further away.
There were moments I questioned whether my baby even liked me, as she cried so often. People made comments like, “Your breast milk isn’t enough,” despite the fact that I was actually overproducing. Others would say, “The fat content in your milk must be too low, that’s why she’s not full.” As if they could somehow measure the fat in breast milk just by looking at it!
I felt completely lost and didn’t know how to find myself again. I started to wish for the days when I was single and free of these overwhelming responsibilities. I vividly remember crying after my final postpartum visit at six weeks. Somehow, my obstetrician was the only person I felt truly understood what I was going through.
I hated the idea that postpartum recovery is considered “over” after six weeks, as if the real struggle didn’t just begin after that. I knew I had to find a way to pull myself out of the darkness I had descended into. Every day, I reminded myself that I was the best mother for my daughter. Even through the pain, the exhaustion, and yes, the grief, I took it one day at a time, pushing forward to become the mother I wanted to be.
I still mourn the loss of who I was before I became a mother. I grieve the freedom I once had—the ability to sleep when I wanted, the luxury of time to myself. Yet, despite this, I’ve found a new kind of love and purpose in this life I’ve created.
Even when things get tough, I push through, determined to shape this new chapter into something that works for me. Grieving my past self doesn’t diminish my love for my child or the joy of motherhood, but it’s part of my journey toward finding balance and peace in this new identity.
Leave a Comment