Mourning on my son’s first birthday.

This time one year ago I was entering the last eight hours of my labor. I was so emotionally stable and level headed the whole time I was pregnant. I went in hoping for the best and expecting the worst. I just wanted it all to be as easy going and calm as possible. I had done everything in my power to educate and prepare myself for all the different possibilities of how my mind would handle and accept my new baby.

I couldn’t have imagined how bad my labor was going to be, and still, my labor experience was a cakewalk compared to the next four months of my life. I severely underestimated how isolated and hopeless postpartum depression was going to make me feel. I had a pretty ok support system and there still wasn’t a minute that I could escape the overwhelming aloneness. I spent hours wondering how I would tell our friends and family that I was leaving my amazing husband and perfect new baby.

Simultaneously, I KNEW that once those newborn days were over I would never get them back. My tiny, soft, helpless baby boy. I knew it and I hated myself for wishing it away.

I was so lucky that after the worst four months of my life, my depression ran its course and I bounced back. Now here we are, a truly happy family the week my sweet little love turns one and I swear I’m having flashbacks. It’s so dramatic but I can’t seem to shake the heartbreak I feel for the woman that had no idea what she was getting herself into a year ago. I wouldn’t do it again. I want to warn her and hug her and cry with her. I want to tell her how sorry I am for letting this happen. I hope this doesn’t happen every year.

Anyway. This has no purpose. I just needed to say it somewhere my mini love won’t ever find it.