After I gave birth to my daughter, I thought things would get better. I thought that once she arrived, the pieces of my life would start falling into place. But I was wrong. So very wrong. The truth is, it got worse. Much worse.
The birth itself was a traumatic experience—I ended up delivering my baby on the couch, alone. That trauma lingered, and I believe it all started unraveling in the hospital. From the moment she was born, something inside me disconnected. I wanted nothing to do with her. I didn’t want to hold her. I didn’t want to look at her. I didn’t even want to be in the same room with her. But I had no choice. People around me expected me to be overjoyed, to feel this overwhelming sense of love and connection. Instead, I felt nothing but distance.
One day, they asked me to change her diaper. I looked at her, so tiny and innocent, and I just sobbed. It wasn’t her fault, but I wanted no part of it. I was supposed to feel maternal instincts, I was supposed to feel love, but all I felt was guilt and shame. It was then that I began to believe what everyone had been telling me—maybe I wasn’t cut out to be a mother. Maybe they were right.
When I finally brought her home, things only spiraled further downhill. I didn’t like her, and I convinced myself she didn’t like me either. Everyone else could hold her and she would be fine—quiet, content, even happy. But when I held her, she would scream, like she could sense that I wasn’t bonding with her the way a mother should. That feeling of rejection tore me apart. Every scream felt like confirmation that I was failing, that I wasn’t fit to be her mother. I started to cry with her, feeling completely defeated.
I remember the moment I gave up. I called my mom, sobbing, telling her, “I can’t do this. My baby hates me.” The words came out between gasps for air as I sat there, drowning in my own guilt. I felt like an absolute failure. Here I was, with this beautiful child, and I couldn’t be the mother she needed. I was supposed to prove everyone wrong. I was supposed to rise to the occasion, to show them I could be a great mom. But I wasn’t.
Motherhood is often painted as this glowing experience full of joy and fulfillment. But for me, it was the opposite. It was isolating, heartbreaking, and full of guilt. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was suffering from postpartum depression—a dark, suffocating cloud that made me question everything, especially my ability to be a mother.
Looking back, I know now that it wasn’t that my daughter hated me. It wasn’t that I wasn’t capable of being a mother. I was struggling with something much deeper than I could understand in that moment. I needed help, and I didn’t even realize it.
If you’re reading this and you’ve felt or are feeling the same, I want you to know that you are not alone. Postpartum depression is real, and it can make you feel disconnected from your baby and yourself. But it doesn’t make you a bad mother. It doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means you’re human, and sometimes, we need help to navigate the hardest times in our lives. And that’s okay.
The Fourth Trimester 