Ivana Poku It was like something took over me.
I was constantly on edge, constantly anxious and exhausted – but unable to sleep.
I’d go through the motions: feed the baby, change the baby, try to smile when visitors came… but inside, I was crumbling.
But the worst part? I was terrified of my own thoughts and feelings.
I had thoughts I couldn’t control.
Intrusive thoughts.
Scary thoughts.
Thoughts that made me question if I (and my children) was safe.
Thoughts that told me my babies would be better off without me.
I didn’t want to harm them. I didn’t want to harm myself.
But the thoughts kept coming anyway.
And the shame that followed made me feel like the worst mum in the world.
But I wasn’t a bad mum.
I was unwell.
Byt I didn’t know it at the time.
No one had told me what postnatal depression really looked like.
No one prepared me for how scary and isolating it could be.
Not in antenatal classes.
Not in the hospital.
Not in the leaflets they handed out after birth.
There was plenty of information about how to change nappies and feed a baby.
But nothing – NOTHING – about what to do when your mind starts turning against you.
So I kept quiet, believing everyone else was having a great time with their baby, just not me.
Because I was scared of what people would think.
I thought they’d see me as unfit. As weak. As broken.
And when I finally found the courage to say, “I’m not okay,” many of the reactions I got only confirmed my fears.
Some people said, “But you look fine!”
Others: “You’ll be fine, you’re so strong.”
Or worse: “Be grateful. You’ve got two healthy babies.”
As if gratitude could cure mental illness.
As if smiling more could erase the storm in my head.
Then, year later, when Kate Middleton announced she had cancer and saw how much love and support she recieved, I realised I envied her.
Not because of her condition. Not because I thought cancer was easier.
But because when someone has cancer, the world believes them.
People rally around. They offer meals, childcare, support, empathy. There’s understanding. There’s grace.
When you’re battling postnatal depression, people expect you to carry on as normal.
To keep the house clean. To look after the baby. To be polite to guests who come to “see how the baby’s doing.” To smile in pictures. To say “I’m fine” when you’re anything but.
And when you don’t?
They don’t see illness. They see failure. Weakness.
I remember one day, I said to someone close to me, “I think something’s wrong. I can’t cope.”
Their response? “You’re just tired. All new mums are tired.”
I felt invisible.
I felt like screaming, No, this isn’t just tiredness. This is something else. This is something dark and terrifying and I need help.
But I stayed quiet. Again.
Because I didn’t have the energy to convince peopleof something I didn’t understand myselff.
Maybe I really was just a bad mum. Maybe I really wasn’t cut out for this.
That’s the lie depression tells you. That you’re the problem.
And that lie is dangerous.
Because maternal mental illness is real.
It’s not rare. It’s not weakness. And it’s not something we can “snap out of.”
It’s a medical condition. One that can be treated. One that can heal – with the right support.
And that’s why I’m writing this.
We need to stop sugarcoating motherhood and start telling the truth: that it can be beautiful and brutal.
Magical and messy.
Joyful and draining.
Because when we only show the pretty parts, we isolate every mum who’s silently suffering.
We need better education in antenatal classes.
We need healthcare professionals to take mums seriously when they speak up.
We need friends and family to listen instead of offering quick fixes.
And most importantly, we need to let mums know it’s normal – and natural – to struggle, especially in the early stages.
There is nothing shameful about postnatal depression. Or postnatal anxiety. Or postnatal rage.
Or any of the other mental health challenges that can follow birth.
You can love your baby and still feel like you’re falling apart.
You can smile in photos and still cry yourself to sleep.
You can be doing your absolute best and still feel like you’re failing.
That doesn’t make you a bad mum. That makes you a real one.
The strongest thing I ever did was say out loud that I wasn’t coping.
It was the scariest step – but also the one that saved my life.
If you’re reading this and you’re in that dark place, please know: there is hope.
There is healing.
You will be happy and smile again – genuinely.
You will feel like yourself again.
if you don’t feel anyting like it now, I recommend you check out my book Motherhood – The Unspoken which I wrote once I pulled through PPD, to ensure no mum ever feels like I did.
I don’t want you to believe you’re alone or failing.
I want you to know the truth – that your feelings are valid, but so is the help that’s out there.
Let’s stop judging what we don’t understand.
Let’s stop expecting mums to be superhuman.
Let’s start listening.
Let’s start believing women when they say they’re not ok.
Because postpartum depression is just as serious as any other health condition.
And it’s time we started treating it that way.
Love always,
Ivana xx
