Photo by u8214977255 via Canva
A beginning, twelve months later
It took almost twelve months after giving birth before I finally felt something shift. I wasn’t suddenly “healed,” but I could feel myself coming back — slowly, gently. The heaviness began to lift. I could laugh again. I could enjoy things again. Sharing my story has become part of that healing, a way to make sense of everything that happened. If you’re still in the thick of it, I want you to know this: there is light at the end of the tunnel. Don’t give up.
If you want to read about the birth itself, I’ve written a separate post about that experience (link here). This one is about everything that came after — the part we don’t talk about enough.
The hospital stay that broke us even more
After the birth, we were supposed to go to a birth centre. That had been the plan all along. But the birth centre was a 40‑minute drive away, and the idea of travelling that far with a newborn — while I had a fourth‑degree tear — felt impossible. So we stayed in the hospital.
I thought the hospital would feel safe. Instead, it was draining in a way I didn’t expect.
The constant checks were relentless. Every few hours, day or night, someone would come in with new questions, new tablets, new instructions. The harsh fluorescent lights flicked on without warning. Machines beeped. Footsteps echoed in the corridor. Nurses called to each other as if across a football field. I felt like a zombie.
If the nurses didn’t wake me, my baby did — he was already cluster feeding, and my nipples were in agony. One moment I had no milk and no idea what I was doing, and the next moment he wanted to be on me almost 24/7.
My husband stayed with us, sleeping on a chair‑sofa made of faux leather. Every time he moved, it made a loud squeaking noise that woke all three of us. None of us slept. Not even for a moment.
By the second night, we looked at each other and agreed: we needed to go home. The sooner, the better.
Coming home — and the fear that followed
Home felt like a sanctuary the moment we walked in. No alarms. No footsteps. No sharp lights. Just quiet. Just us.
But peace didn’t mean safety — at least not in our minds.
That first night at home, we didn’t sleep at all. We were so terrified something might happen while we were asleep that we set up a “night watch” — one of us staying awake for hours while the other tried to rest. It felt absurd and primal at the same time, like guarding a tiny, fragile creature we barely knew how to care for.
Our baby felt so impossibly small, and the whole thing felt unreal. After nine months of carrying him inside me, suddenly he was here — a little person in our arms, depending on us for everything.
At night, we had to choose between complete darkness or keeping a small light on so we could see each other and the baby. We still sleep with a night light now, covered with a dark muslin cloth to soften it. It’s become part of our nights — a reminder of those early weeks when everything felt so fragile.
A recovery I wasn’t prepared for
With a fourth‑degree tear, I was told I couldn’t drive or lift anything heavier than my baby. Recovery could take three months or more. Running, jumping, even long walks were off the table.
I had been active during pregnancy — walking daily, swimming, doing yoga, doing perineal massage. I had already booked mum‑and‑baby yoga classes and exercise sessions. I imagined myself going for long walks with the stroller.
Instead, everything stopped.
Our house has stairs, and I couldn’t carry the 10‑kg stroller down. I couldn’t use the baby carrier for a while. I couldn’t leave the house without my husband. My independence disappeared overnight.
Healing was hard and painful. I was taking so many pills that keeping track felt impossible, especially through the fog of sleep deprivation. At one point I forgot to take a crucial medication for a day or two — and when you’re that exhausted, being given important instructions feels like someone speaking to you underwater. The inflammation that followed was agonising. I relied on painkillers and ice pads just to take the edge off. Every movement reminded me of the tear, of how vulnerable my body still was.
Anxiety and agoraphobia
Slowly, anxiety crept in. Leaving the house with the baby felt terrifying.
Where would I feed him. Where would I change him. What if something went wrong.
I scanned every environment like a mother tiger protecting her cub — except the “danger” was often just a butterfly. My nervous system was stuck on high alert.
No support, no family, no village
We had planned for my mother‑in‑law to come help us. But during her visa medical check, they found metastasis in her lungs. She had just finished treatment, and we thought she was in the clear. The medical exam caught it early — which was the good part — but it meant she needed more treatment and couldn’t come.
My husband tried to protect me from the news because I was close to giving birth. But eventually he had to tell me.
He is very close to his mother. His father wasn’t around, and they divorced when he was in his teens. This news broke him. It broke the whole family.
And it meant we were alone. No help. No family. Just the two of us, in a country far from home. (Fortunately, her treatment went well, and she was finally able to visit when my son was around one year old.)
Isolation in a new place
We live in a suburb far from most friends and amenities. I couldn’t walk to a café or a shop. Everything was a 30‑minute walk through hills or a five‑minute drive — and I couldn’t drive.
I felt cut off from the world. Cut off from myself.
Trying to heal
I won’t pretend I’m fully healed. But I’m lighter than I was. I’m steadier. I’m learning to trust my body again, my instincts again, myself again.
Healing didn’t happen all at once. It came in small moments — a laugh, a walk, a day that didn’t feel heavy. And those moments kept adding up.
If you’re somewhere in the dark right now, I hope my story reminds you that the light does return. Slowly, quietly, but it does.
If you’re curious about the birth experience that shaped so much of this recovery, I wrote about it in My 48‑Hour Labour: What I Wasn’t Prepared For.
Photo by Arshad Khan via Canva
