A Strong Back 2: Part 2

A Strong Back 2 is dedicated to those who're intimately acquainted with early motherhood. Read Part 1 here. This is a personal story, not medical, counseling, or parenting advice. See full disclaimer at the end.

The enormous vigor during labor and delivery, emboldened by epidural anesthesia, vanished completely in the early weeks of postpartum haze. Like a colossal waterfall plunging from the highest mountain top but midway evaporating into thin air, my body collapsed from nine months of pregnancy and 15 hours of contraction. A baby boy was born and immediately demanded around-the-clock care. The hormonal storm from placenta delivery, brain changes, and lactation swiftly escalated into a full-blown cyclone. Dwarfed by sleeplessness and the aftermath of an extreme workout that is giving birth, my body was so frail and in so much pain that I couldn’t walk for two weeks. The unforgiving cries of a hungry and bite-y newborn left me powerless as I painstakingly attempted to breastfeed but “failed.” All sorts of strange soreness, searing spasms, and throbbing ache forced me to give up nursing. Skin-to-skin contact with my infant son became anxiety to endure instead of attachment to embrace, further diminishing the chance of a nursing relationship. I “resorted” to pumping exclusively, which initially went smoothly thanks to hormonally-driven milk supply. But merely a few weeks later, my isolated body took notice of the stress, sleep debt, and distance from my baby. With little support around pumping, spasms and soreness roared back, often at the most inconvenient time (3am) with no one to call or consult. Milk supply tapered off accordingly.

This beast of a process - the rapid and ferocious changes in a mother’s body, what it’s capable of, and the intelligence it holds - is only visible to the body itself. Facing physical futility, I clamped tightly onto my sleep-deprived mind to make meaning. But the hectic postpartum weeks left little room for contemplation. So my mind’s eye both marveled at and struggled to grasp the vast, instinctual knowledge of the maternal body, joy, pain, and all. Perhaps that knowledge is meant to be inaccessible to the feeble, conscious mind. When words eluded me, a friend’s wisdom saved me; she skillfully described the process as being so extraordinary and unknown to us that the only way we could possibly comprehend it might just be clinically.

Biology is both magical and relentless.

Weeks went by, the body eventually healed to the best of its ability, with the exception of an often sore lower back. Abdominal muscle separation from pregnancy and birth inevitably led to even less core strength. The scar tissue that formed after recovering from lumbar disc herniation two years before remained fragile and prone to re-injury.

As much (ineffective) book learning I comfortably engaged in before giving birth - watching videos about breastfeeding, taking classes on labor and delivery - the demands of postpartum recovery and infant care were anything but comfortable. These undertakings were so extraordinarily physical that the mind-over-body thinker in me was completely unprepared; “a steep learning curve” felt like an understatement. Four weeks postpartum, I mustered up all my strength and attended an online support group for new moms hosted by Postpartum Support International. All participants were less than a year postpartum, and several were just a few weeks out like me. Almost everyone lamented about sleep deprivation and feeding challenges. One mom aptly portrayed the newborn days as being “crushed by a boulder and hard to breathe, but you don’t get a minute of break and just have to keep going.”

The helping hands of grandparents and our postpartum doula were invaluable. With my husband returning to work merely seven weeks later, our infant son slowly began to form preferences of caregivers, particularly when it came to sleep. In the first few months of his life, our son had been held or rocked to sleep by many caring arms. But by the time he turned five months old, the growing boy had clearly begun to favor his mama. Having not been able to hold him during the first few weeks due to breastfeeding woes, I cherished the daily ritual of rocking my baby to sleep as my own body stabilized. But in the mind, dread had been mounting for a while.

Already struggling with a multitude of not-enoughness and identity shifts as a new mom to our first living child, I was laid off from my tech job when my son was two months old, with income and health insurance gone shortly after. An ingrained identity as a full-time working professional disappeared overnight, adding fuel to the postpartum fire. But of course, none of these setbacks concerned my growing baby in the slightest. He continued to require motion and the comfort of my arms to fall asleep, day and night.

Infant sleep can be extremely tricky (overtired, undertired, sleep-wake window, nap duration, split nights, sleep regression, fighting sleep despite exhaustion, etc.), and babies wake often during naps and night-time sleep. Oftentimes, my boy would finally fall asleep after as long as half an hour of constant rocking and walking. (Apparently this is a sign that he might have been undertired or overtired. But which one? No idea.) Every short nap, every sudden waking and wailing, would send his desperately responsive mama sprinting to his crib, pick him up, and rock him again, hopefully back to sleep. (Why did he take short naps? Wasn’t he tired? Why did he abruptly wake up and scream after having just been put to sleep 20 minutes ago? No idea.) If the sleep fairy was not on our side, a lack of breathing room for me or restful nap for my baby ensued, snowballing into a cranky rest of the day and difficult night-time sleep. Less respite for me meant fewer chances to calm worsening sciatica from holding and walking a heavier and heavier infant to sleep numerous times a day.

As our seven-month-old boy welcomed his first new year, he had no clue how frightened and helpless his mother had been muddling through the height of her postpartum anxiety. Behind the sweet family holiday photos, I feared immensely. What if my body broke down from another disc herniation and ongoing sciatica? I would then be entirely useless as a mother, unable to nurse, unable to provide for my son financially, and unable to do the one thing that my body still managed to do. As my boy continued to fiercely reject my husband’s or my mom’s attempt to help him sleep, I felt utterly cornered and out of options. I screamed and wished I could just disappear.

For many new mothers, these acute feelings of guilt, not-enoughness, fear, anxiety, and even a desire to disappear, are all too familiar. Juxtaposed with the more politically correct feelings of maternal bliss, these hard feelings on the flip side can be disorienting for a new mother. (A good friend courageously summarized her first year postpartum as “a year that was so magical and yet it also broke me.”) These feelings are the reasons why groups like Postpartum Support International exist, and why perinatal mental health is a specialized field. They are so widespread that their invisibility in the public consciousness breaks my heart. They seem only valid in the private space of support groups, therapy sessions, and journal pages, but they form a vast layer of social fabric beneath the veneer of a world that most visibly values productivity and efficiency. It both humbles and upsets me to wonder how many new mothers, and by extension, new families and new babies, are struggling in isolation to make sense of these feelings during one of the most precious but also precarious times of their lives.

Continue to Part 3 here.

Disclaimer: The content of this essay is based on personal experience. It is for storytelling and informational purposes only and should not be considered medical advice. I am not a medical professional, and any decisions about your specific situations, diagnosis, treatment, or health care should be made in consultation with qualified medical practitioners.

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