I Gave Birth to My Baby, Then I Checked My Work Email

Last week, someone asked me, “Did you always want to be a mom?”

My instinct was to say yes — but then I paused. Sitting on the floor with my 15-month-old daughter, I realized I’d never actually asked myself that question before. I’d always imagined what kind of mother I’d be, but not whether I wanted to become one.

Motherhood, I would soon learn, has a way of undoing everything you think you know about yourself.

The shock of “after”

When I gave birth to my daughter in January 2020, I expected exhaustion, maybe some tears, and the cliché “nap when the baby naps.” What I didn’t expect was the complete disorientation that came afterward — the fog, the bleeding, the body that no longer felt like mine.

I had a healthy baby, a supportive husband, and a good job. On paper, everything was perfect. But inside, I felt broken. I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror. My body hurt, my emotions swung wildly, and the joy everyone said I’d feel seemed to have skipped me entirely.

What I wish someone had told me is this: postpartum is not just recovery. It’s rebirth — and it’s messy.

The illusion of control

Control was my comfort zone. I’d built a career, followed rules, checked boxes. When the world felt uncertain, I worked harder. So two days after giving birth, I did what I’d always done — I opened my laptop and checked my work email.

I told myself it was about staying “connected,” but really it was about control. Work was the one part of my life I still felt competent in. My boss had encouraged me to fully unplug, but I couldn’t. I was terrified of falling behind, of becoming irrelevant.

It’s only now, years later, that I can see how twisted that logic was — and how deeply it reflected the unspoken pressures many working mothers feel. In the U.S., we glorify “doing it all,” and women absorb that message long before we ever have children.

When I think about those first weeks, I wish I had granted myself the grace to disconnect. Work will always be there. You, on the other hand, won’t get those first fragile months back.

The loneliness no one talks about

The first six weeks felt like “Groundhog Day,” nurse, pump, clean, repeat. Friends texted to ask how the baby was. Almost no one asked how I was.

In my journal, I wrote:

I am tired. I feel alone. I don’t know what I’m doing. Everyone is giving me advice, and I don’t even know what I want. How can you love someone so much and be so sad?

I reread that entry now and see a woman unraveling — desperate, ashamed, and scared to admit it. I thought needing help made me weak.

It took me months to understand that asking for help is strength. Motherhood isn’t meant to be done alone. Yet we’re sold this image of the “supermom” who bounces back, breastfeeds effortlessly, and never loses her cool. That image keeps so many of us silent — and suffering.

The darkness crept in

By my six-week postpartum checkup, the pandemic had shut down the world. My doctor asked how I was feeling, and I rattled off a list of contradictions: grateful but empty, lucky but numb, loved but completely disconnected from myself.

She gently suggested increasing my anxiety medication and finding a therapist. I nodded but did nothing. I was too tired to take one more step toward fixing myself.

Weeks later, the darkness deepened. One morning, after feeding my daughter, I walked to our upstairs deck and looked down at the ground below. My mind whispered a thought I’d never had before: What would happen if I jumped?

The shame was instant and crushing. How could I feel this way when I had so much? And yet, that’s exactly how postpartum depression works — it convinces you that you’re both ungrateful and unworthy.

Then I heard my daughter cry. Her small, desperate wail cut through the fog. I walked back inside, picked her up, and for the first time, truly felt like a mother. Her cry anchored me. It reminded me I still had something — someone — to live for.

That moment didn’t cure me, but it cracked open a window of light. I found a therapist soon after.

Reclaiming myself

Healing was slow. Therapy helped me understand that motherhood isn’t about losing yourself — it’s about finding a new version of who you are.

I started saying yes when my husband offered help. I took short walks, journaled, and began exercising again, not to “get my body back,” but to feel strong in it.

When I returned to work four months later, it was still the height of the pandemic. A male colleague cheerfully asked, “How was your vacation?”

I wanted to scream. I hadn’t been on a beach. I’d been learning how to breastfeed while bleeding through my clothes. But I smiled politely and said, “It was… an experience.”

Moments like that highlight how disconnected our workplace culture still is from the realities of motherhood. Most women return to work before they’re emotionally or physically ready, forced to perform as if nothing has changed. But everything has.

Finding hope in the unfiltered truth

Looking back, I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever have another child. The postpartum experience nearly broke me. But it also taught me everything about who I am — and what kind of mother I want to be.

We need to start telling the truth about postpartum. Not the airbrushed version, but the real one — the blood clots, the tears, the loneliness, and the quiet courage it takes to get out of bed every day.

When we share these unfiltered stories, we give other parents something to hold onto: hope.

Because hope, I’ve learned, is what carries you through the darkest nights. And sometimes, it sounds like a baby’s cry reminding you that you still belong here — messy, tired, imperfect, and loved.

Adapted from “Maternal Hope: Stories of Unseen Struggles, Unexpected Resilience, and the Untold Ways Families Are Made,” by Camille Seigle and Ali Mann Stevens, published by Alone No More Press (October 21, 2025). Excerpt reprinted with permission from Alone No More Press. All Rights Reserved.