After giving birth, I thought I understood exhaustion. I was wrong. Labor had ended, but what followed—the healing, the sleepless nights, the quiet ache of feeling like a stranger in my own body—was far harder than I imagined. Everyone talks about the miracle of childbirth, but few mention how fragile you can feel afterward, how even standing up can feel like climbing a mountain.
My body was swollen, weak, and sore. I couldn’t look in the mirror without flinching. The woman staring back didn’t feel like me—puffy-eyed, pale, wrapped in an oversized postpartum diaper. Nights blurred into mornings, and I moved through them half-asleep, emotions raw and unpredictable. Sometimes I cried for no reason. Sometimes I cried because I had every reason.
One night, after a feeding, I tried to make it to the bathroom. My legs trembled. I was dizzy, unsteady. My husband, who hadn’t slept much either, followed quietly. When I stood up too fast and felt the world tilt, he caught me before I hit the floor. I tried to laugh it off, but the pain shot through me, and I froze.
He said nothing—just helped me sit, waited while I finished, and then gently lifted me back to bed. I felt humiliated. My body, which had just done something extraordinary, suddenly felt broken. Tears streamed down as I whispered, “I’m sorry.” Sorry for being weak, for needing help, for not being the woman I used to be.
Continue reading on the next page…