As International Women's Day approaches, I've been reflecting on my recent postnatal experience. As the marketer for We Are Hummingbird Health, and with much encouragement from the team at Hummingbird, I feel it's time to share my story, not just as a personal account, but as a way to normalise this experience and signpost others towards the support that is available.
Like most pregnant women, I approached the birth of my child with a mix of hope, excitement, fear, and anticipation. Those final weeks passed painfully slowly, but I had everything prepared. The spare room had been transformed into a calming oasis. The birth pool was ready for my planned home birth. I had cheat sheets printed for my partner, affirmations, instructions, my birth plan. Everything was in place. I envisioned discovering my baby's sex at home, in the birth pool, in a warm, peaceful glow, with my favourite songs playing in the background. I look back at that hopeful mother-to-be with the cynical perspective that only experience can bring.
Needless to say, the birth didn't go as I imagined. My natural home water birth with no medical intervention became a gruelling 48-hour labour that ended in an emergency C-section. Nothing went to plan. From my first contraction, I didn't sleep for three nights. When I first called for my home birth midwives (who I had come to know and trust) they were attending another birth. Instead, two unfamiliar community midwives arrived, bringing all the warmth and finesse of a primary school dinner lady. After a painful examination and much disruption, they left, and my contractions slowed to once every 20 minutes, just frequent enough to keep me from sleeping.
The following evening, my trusted midwives were at their Christmas party, and once again, I felt vulnerable. The feeling of safety and security I needed was absent, and I was afraid to go into full labour, afraid I'd end up with midwives I didn't know.
By the third day, I was in agony. Each contraction ripped through me. Utterly exhausted and depleted after three sleepless nights, I was still just 1cm dilated. I wanted to cry or scream but I was already doing both. I couldn't do it anymore. I went to the hospital for pain relief.
Once in the hospital, the interventions escalated, and my options dwindled. Eventually, my baby's distress meant there was no choice, I needed a C-section. Terrified, I was wheeled into a stark, bright operating room, my partner gripping my hands as we both stared into each other's eyes, shaking with fear. The adrenaline surged through me as I realised they were about to cut into my womb to bring my baby into the world. Suddenly, her heartbeat disappeared from the monitor, and everything happened at once. The screen went up, and in what felt like seconds, my baby was held up above it. That moment is frozen in time, the absolute wonder I felt seeing her for the first time.
The next hours passed in a daze. Hallucinating from exhaustion and medication, I struggled to focus on my baby's face, which seemed to shift and change whenever I looked at her. Hospital noises, crying babies, rustling curtains, blurred together. Though we were meant to stay for 24 hours post-surgery, I needed to be home. By 3 pm the next day, we were suddenly a family, completely alone, with no idea what to do next.
That first night, we took shifts, passing her between us like an unexploded bomb. One hour of sleep for him, then for me, then two for him, then one for me. We were terrified to put her down.
On day two, the midwife came and warned us about the baby blues. We smiled blissfully and assured her we were fine. We had our perfect baby, and we were happy. I want to go back in time and slap our naïve, sleep-deprived faces.
A few days later, it hit, it hit hard. I felt like a failure. I had failed to birth my baby naturally. She cried all the time. She wouldn't let me put her down without screaming. It had to be my fault. The stress and trauma had impacted my milk supply. Oxytocin (the love hormone) is essential for milk production, but cortisol (the stress hormone) shuts it down. My depression only worsened my guilt, I was failing at breastfeeding because I was failing at being a mother. I loved my baby, but I couldn't cope. It was too hard. She was too demanding. I was failing, failing, failing.
On her second day, we rushed her to the hospital. Her breathing was laboured, and she was limp and unresponsive. She was dehydrated. I had to supplement with formula. I knew it was necessary for her health, but it reinforced my sense of inadequacy.
And then came the voices. The well-meaning but overwhelming chorus of advice from friends, family, and books:
"You should be putting her down to sleep." "You should try a dummy." "You should let her cry it out." "You shouldn't use formula—it will dry up your breastmilk." "You shouldn't be bed-sharing." All I heard was:
"YOU SHOULD BE BETTER AT THIS."
I knew about the baby blues and postnatal depression, but I had no idea how lonely it could be. At my lowest point, I thought
"We can't survive this. We will all die, and it will be better when we do. "
I was going to be a terrible mother, my daughter was going to have a terrible life. The hormonal crash, the exhaustion, the feeling of failure, it consumed me.
I was lucky. I had support. My incredible midwifery team visited me at home. I had friends trained in mental health who understood my desperate pleas for support. My background in counselling helped me recognise my symptoms and hold onto the knowledge that this would pass. But it terrifies me to think of the women who don't have that support.
Knowledge is everything when it comes to mental health. Without an understanding of depression and anxiety, it's impossible to offer real support. Shame often prevents people from reaching out. I had a beautiful, healthy baby—I should have been happy. But postnatal depression doesn't work that way.
The Reality of Postnatal Depression
Postnatal depression affects over 1 in 10 women in the first year after birth. It can also affect partners. Death by suicide is a leading cause of maternal mortality, accounting for around 20% of postpartum deaths.
The baby blues, caused by hormonal shifts, usually last just a few days. Postnatal depression is deeper, more persistent. It can bring hopelessness, an inability to stop crying, feelings of failure, anxiety, exhaustion, and despair. Not everyone experiences every symptom, but any of them can be crushing.
At my lowest, I found lists of ways to combat postnatal depression. They all seemed laughably impossible:
1. Make time for yourself—go for a walk, read a book.
2. Get enough sleep and eat well.
3. Exercise.
How? When every moment was survival? When even brushing my teeth felt monumental?
I kept going because of my daughter. One foot in front of the other. Wake up. Brush teeth. Feed baby. Pump. Eat. Drink water. Tell the baby I love her. Feed her again. Repeat. And I reached out. I spoke to new mothers, my colleagues, my midwives. I made it through.
We need to talk about mental health. We need to share our stories so others don't feel alone. We need to educate ourselves to recognise depression and anxiety so we can support those who need us. Too often, we lose people to suicide and hear, There were no warning signs. There are always signs, we just need to know how to see them.
Change is needed. In individuals. In workplaces. In society.
Breaking the stigma around mental health isn't just important, it's lifesaving.
If you are struggling with your mental health, it's important to reach out! Reach out to friends and family, speak to your midwife or health visitor. If you want to speak to someone in confidence, you can contact one of the services below:
Samaritans: Available 24/7 for anyone who needs to talk. You can call them for free at 116 123, email jo@samaritans.org
Shout: A confidential 24/7 text service that supports people in crisis. Text "SHOUT" to 85258 for immediate help.
Sane: Provides emotional support and mental health information. Call their helpline at 0300 304 7000 or visit sane.org.uk.
National Suicide Prevention Helpline UK: Offering a listening service to anyone experiencing suicidal thoughts. You can call 0800 689 5652 from 6 pm to midnight daily. If you can’t connect to the main line, try 0800 689 0880 or visit spuk.org.uk/national-suicide-prevention-helpline-uk/.
Comments