At my postpartum checkup — the standard one every new mom has when her baby is about 6 weeks old — my doctor asked me how I was feeling. "Okay," I said. I wasn't.
As a first-time mom, I didn't want to feel like a failure, and I definitely didn't want to cause any unnecessary alarm. At that point, I also still believed that I had the baby blues, temporary mood swings that many moms experience in the early weeks. I thought I just needed some time for everything to settle back into place and for my hormones to recalibrate. But things only got worse.
It wasn’t until around nine months postpartum that I received an official diagnosis of postpartum depression (PPD) from a therapist. Finally identifying what I was experiencing was a turning point in my journey.
I learned that PPD can be invisible
Postpartum depression is an invisible disease. In my case, I had intense and overwhelming feelings of sadness, despair, and hopelessness. I faced crippling anxiety and had trouble bonding with my son. But I still showed up every day, playing the part of a mom who had it all together.
I questioned if I was meant to be a mother, and I told myself on several occasions that my child would be better off without me. I also felt ashamed for not feeling happy and grateful. I believed that if I was a "good" mom, then it wouldn't be so hard to adjust.
All of this was happening on the inside. Sometimes it's hard to see the signs of PPD until they've been going on for a long time, when you step back and realize how hard it's been to get through your daily life. I remember plastering a smile on my face and saying that I was fine, even though inside I was falling apart.
PPD can affect anyone
I know that this will sound naive, but when I was pregnant, I assumed that I wouldn't get postpartum depression as long as I stuck to a plan. If I ate healthy, exercised regularly, and got lots of sun, my mental health would be okay. Ultimately, I did all those things, and I still experienced this debilitating condition.
You see, postpartum depression isn't something you can just avoid or will yourself not to experience. It's not something you can build immunity against. Sometimes it just happens.
Meeting and photographing other moms with PPD helped me
As I started dealing with my postpartum depression, I was in desperate need of a lifeline. I realized that I couldn't possibly be the only mother who felt the way that I did. Other moms must be feeling lonely and fighting these silent battles.
With this in mind, I started photographing my own motherhood experience along with the experiences of six other moms in my community. Photography has always been a way for me to express my inner world, and this project helped me in more ways than one. Mostly, I found power in vulnerably sharing our stories. Having authentic conversations about the realities of mothering with these women helped me heal.
As I spoke candidly with them, I realized that many moms struggle in silence in order to look like they have it all together. I learned that you often have no idea that a mother has PPD unless she tells you. The weight of keeping it all together and fitting into societal expectations of motherhood only deepens the depression and pushes moms into a loneliness that can be hard to crawl out of. Often, mothers believe they're the only ones going through the experience, not realizing just how common it is.
If you're struggling, you're not alone — and there are ways to make it better
When it comes to PPD, I want other moms to know that it is real. I want them to know that if something appears to be off, they don't need to hide it. I want them to know that seeking help is the most courageous thing they can do.
These photos are an invitation for other moms to feel less lonely in their experiences. When you see yourself in another person's story, it becomes easier to share your own story. And so these photos give mothers permission to do that, to be honest and talk about the challenges they face.
If you're a mom who's struggling with your mental health, I want you to have a safe space to land, to have someone who can hold you and wipe away your tears. I don't want you to feel judged to the point of silence. I want you to have space to unravel, to feel like you don't have to hold it all together. I want you to hang up your cape. Moms are not superheroes — they're people. They need rest, they need to exhale, they need ease.
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