My light went out:
motherhood, postnatal depression
and finding myself again

A quick note before you read: This blog discusses postnatal depression, pregnancy loss, birth trauma and thoughts of disappearing. If you’re struggling or recognise any of these feelings in yourself, please speak to someone. Support is available through PANDAS Foundation, Sands, The Miscarriage Association and The Birth Trauma Association. If you need someone to talk to right now, Samaritans are available 24/7 on 116 123.

Two years ago, when Mabel was six months old, I wrote one of the most personal things we’ve ever shared on the Eat Street website.

I called it 6 Months of MEOW.

I wrote about losing our twins, getting pregnant again, Mabel’s traumatic birth, struggling to breastfeed, the anger and jealousy I felt, and how difficult I found the transition into motherhood.

At the time, writing it felt incredibly raw. But I also wrote that we needed to have more honest conversations about becoming parents and about the things we’re struggling with behind closed doors.

So, two years and another baby later, it feels important that I’m just as honest now.

I could feel my light fading

The thing with postnatal depression is, I was expecting it to hit me like a train.

Like I’d been slapped around the face with sadness.

But that didn’t happen.

Instead, it slowly crept up on me, gradually taking away my oxygen like a flame locked in a box.

There weren’t endless tears.

I wasn’t unable to get out of bed.

But I could feel my light fading.

I could sense that I was losing the things that make me me, but I couldn’t explain it.

I blamed being tired.

I blamed being busy.

I blamed the general chaos of having two children and running a business.

I thought that at five months postpartum, I’d escaped it this time.

But looking back, I suspect it had been there all along. Lingering somewhere in the background since Mabel was born, never quite leaving me completely.

The day something changed

The turning point came on a day I spent on my own with both kids.

Alex was working and I was dreading the day before it had even started.

I was finding Mabel so challenging that I didn’t want to be around her.

I was irritable.

Angry.

My rage over tiny, insignificant things completely consumed me.

It ended with me doing some things I’m not proud of. Nothing serious or harmful, but things I’ll probably carry guilt about for a very long time.

And then I sat on the sofa and sobbed.

Mabel came over, stroked my arm and said:

“There there, Mummy.”

The little girl who, in that moment, I had hated.

The little girl I’d wanted to run away from.

She was showing me more empathy and compassion than many adults have shown me over the years.

I resented my children

Not long afterwards, we went on our first proper family holiday, to celebrate Alex’s 40th.

I was dreading it.

To the very pit of my stomach, I didn’t want to go.

I resented the children for ruining mine and Alex’s relationship.

I resented the children for destroying my brain.

I resented the children for turning me into someone I didn’t recognise.

I resented the children.

That week was awful. Of course we made some lovely family memories, but for me they’re tainted by how much I was struggling underneath it all. I’ve lost count of the number of times I thought about walking into the Welsh mountains and disappearing. Leaving everyone I love the most behind.

This isn’t something I’m proud of.

But it’s something I know now was because I was ill.

I knew this wasn't me

I think that was the moment something finally broke through.

Because underneath all the anger, resentment and irritation, I knew this wasn’t me.

I knew I couldn’t feel like this anymore.

For my children.

For my husband.

For myself.

Now, at nine months postpartum, I’ve spent the last few months taking vitamin D, B12 and iron supplements, and more recently antidepressants.

Things aren’t back to “normal”, but I’m feeling a lot more positive.

I’m not quite at the flourishing at life stage but I’m certainly not just at the surviving life stage anymore.

The constant overwhelm is still ever-present but I’m focusing on spinning the most important plates:

Myself.

Alex.

The kids.

Eat Street.

Other things I’ve accepted help with, or benched for the time being until life feels slightly more manageable. And I’m learning that that’s okay.

The mum guilt

People talk about “mum guilt” all the time and I don’t think I really understood it until I had Orton. Until Mabel wasn’t the centre of our world anymore. And until, in some ways, I felt like I’d been given the chance to have a “do-over” at being a mum.

The guilt I carry around that is enormous.

Guilt that I don’t think I was as good a mum to Mabel as I am to Orton.

Guilt that sometimes I couldn’t wait to put her in her bed, while I could cuddle him constantly.

Guilt that I wanted her to go to nursery 24/7, while I don’t want him to go at all.

Guilt that I was mentally stronger this time and could feed him.

Guilt that I didn’t hate him for robbing me of the vaginal birth I’d wanted.

And so many other things.

Rationally, I know none of those things make me a better or worse mum but guilt doesn’t always listen to rationality.

I felt like an absolute superwoman

For six months, I felt like an absolute superwoman.

I pumped day in, day out, providing Orton exclusively with breast milk, bar a couple of bottles during his SCBU stay, but the impact it had on my physical and mental health was huge so at seven months, after pumping around 200 litres, I stopped.

I’ve got my body back.

I’m hoping my hair will stop falling out.

My boobs no longer randomly leak.

I’m not constantly thinking about when I need to pump, where I can pump, or how I’m going to take pumping equipment around with me.

I’m so proud of myself.

Proud that I gave so much of myself to him for those six months but now I need to give some of me back to myself.

Pouring from an empty cup

I’ve been pouring from an empty cup for months, now it’s time to refill it, so I can give more to the people I love most.

I’m incredibly thankful that I have such a wonderfully supportive husband, who has had his own personal struggles this year too. We’ve gone through things that no one should ever have to experience. But through everything, Alex is there. Either physically holding me or mentally holding me.

Even when he is falling apart himself.

My flame has oxygen again

My light feels like it’s slowly returning.

My flame has oxygen again.

But it’s not always on the up. Some days I feel right back at rock bottom again. On the whole, though, things feel brighter, more manageable slightly less overwhelming.

Some women seem to shine as mums, like it’s all they were ever meant to do. Sometimes that’s just the good bits portrayed on social media. Sometimes they genuinely don’t want to spend a single moment away from their children.

I’m not that mum.

And I’m learning that that’s okay too.

Why I'm talking about this

Since I wrote 6 Months of MEOW, mental health has become an even bigger part of our lives and, inevitably, of Eat Street too. Alex and I are both Isle of Wight ambassadors for The Burnt Chef Project, a charity working to improve mental health within the hospitality industry.

Through Eat Street, we’ve also been able to turn something we care deeply about into something positive with Monochrome Monday, raising money and starting conversations around mental health.

Hospitality is particularly good at putting on a show. The guests arrive. The food goes out. You smile. You solve problems. You keep going.

Whether you’ve slept properly, argued with your husband, spent the morning crying or feel like your brain is barely functioning doesn’t really matter when someone is trusting you with their wedding, birthday or celebration.

You perform.

And that can make it incredibly easy to hide when you’re not okay. But you don’t have to work in hospitality to understand that feeling.

Sometimes struggling doesn’t look like someone falling apart.

Sometimes it looks like someone going to work.

Sometimes it looks like someone running a business.

Sometimes it looks like someone answering emails, posting on Instagram, raising two children and apparently managing everything perfectly well while quietly running out of oxygen.

Please talk.

Whichever kind of mum you are, please talk please share your feelings with someone especially if motherhood doesn’t feel the way you thought it would.

If you’re angry when you thought you’d be sad.

If you love your children more than anything in the world but sometimes desperately want to escape from them.

If you look perfectly capable from the outside while quietly disappearing on the inside.

Please tell someone.

I’m not sharing this because I’ve got everything sorted. I’m not writing it from the other side with a neat little happy ending. I’m still figuring it out. But things are improving.