Postpartum... Lets Talk About IT

One moment I’m bright—shiny even. I don’t know why “shiny” feels like an emotion, but it does. Feeling on top of the world, like I could high-five the moon.

The next moment? Emotional tomahawk to the chest. Dark clouds rolling in. The world feels like it’s on a dimmer switch—but instead of getting brighter, someone just keeps cranking it darker.

Everyone’s holding my baby, tossing in casual gems like, “Shouldn’t she be wearing socks?” Meanwhile, I’m sitting inside, staring out the window, zoning so hard I somehow start counting the blades of grass in the yard without even realizing it. Turns out postpartum apparently comes with Spider-Man-level vision. Cool party trick, I guess.

While they’re all cooing over her tiny fingers, I’m over here internally fighting the postpartum battle like it’s the championship round—smiling politely while my brain is quietly setting small emotional fires.

I was not prepared for postpartum. The only “prep” I got was the unhelpful chorus of, “Make sure to take care of yourself after birth because postpartum is real.”

Cool. Noted. Still waiting for the actual advice in that statement.

So I just stand there, staring blankly at the person saying this, realizing their advice is about as useful as giving me a car key… to a car I don’t own.

Postpartum, in my experience, has been a whole lot of “what is happening to me?”

It’s crying over literally nothing—like the glass of water sitting on the counter that just looked lonely. Yup. Lost it. Full-blown tears over a piece of glassware.

It’s feeling like everything is wrong and the walls are closing in… to suddenly deciding you’re going to train for a half-marathon. (Yes, this is me. Come see me race in a year. Or don’t. I might bail.)

It’s Googling symptoms you already know are normal. It’s trying to remember the last time you ate something other than a granola bar. It’s staring at your baby’s face for an hour, convinced they’re the most perfect thing that’s ever existed—then immediately spiraling because you have no idea what you’re doing.

And then there’s the advice. Ohhh, the advice. “Sleep when the baby sleeps.” “Enjoy every moment.” “You’ll miss this one day.”

Cool — can you also swing by and unload my dishwasher while I’m over here “enjoying the moment” where my shirt smells like sour milk and my hair has the texture of dry ramen?

Here’s the thing no one really warns you about—it’s so easy to fall into the trap of unrealistic expectations. Social media, baby books, and even other well-meaning moms can make you think there’s a “normal” you’re supposed to be living up to. The color-coordinated nursery. The perfect breastfeeding latch. The spotless kitchen. The calm, glowing mom who looks like she stepped out of a Pinterest board.

And layered under all of it? The quiet, sneaky loss of identity. You’re still you—but suddenly you’re also a mom. Your time, your energy, even your body no longer feel like they belong entirely to you. The hobbies you loved, the routines that grounded you, the independence you had—they all shift, sometimes overnight. It’s beautiful and brutal all at once. You’re rebuilding who you are while keeping a tiny human alive. No one tells you how heavy that can feel.

It’s like being handed the keys to a car you’ve never driven, on a road you’ve never been on, while the GPS is screaming in a language you don’t understand—and oh, by the way, the car is also on fire.

In all seriousness—take a breath. Do something you love, even if it’s small. Eat the snack. Sit in the sun. Watch the trashy TV show. You are doing great.

There’s no right way to navigate postpartum. But here? You’re in a safe place to talk about it, laugh about it, and cry about it.

We are strong. We are moms. And we are doing the best we can and doing a damn good job at it