This piece reflects on what I learned about love and healing after experiencing two very different postpartum seasons, and why postpartum love is not something to perform, but something that requires care, preparation, and support.
I see many versions of postpartum journeys as a midwife. I am a mother who experienced two very different postpartum seasons, shaped less by luck and more by what I didn’t know the first time, and what I learned from both.
With my first birth, I remember trying to act like I was 100% fine, even in the hospital. As if giving birth was no big deal. I moved around easily, talked casually, and downplayed the intensity of what had just happened. I wanted to appear healed, rested, and fully capable.
I remember someone saying to my husband, “She’s about to hit a wall.”
I heard it and dismissed it completely.
I thought, pfff, whatever.
A few days later, I hit the proverbial wall. Hard.
At the time, I had no real understanding of how emotionally draining, physically exhausting, and mentally destabilizing the immediate postpartum period could be. I hadn’t educated myself. I hadn’t prepared. I didn’t have support systems in place. I didn’t even know what support should look like.
I thought love looked like endurance.
My baby was here. He was healthy. I hadn’t died. So why did I feel like this?
My husband went back to work the day after we got home from the hospital. Less than 72 hours after giving birth, I was home alone with a newborn, with no experience and no idea what I was doing. Breastfeeding was hard - something else I hadn’t researched or prepared for. The pain was excruciating, and Jay cried constantly. I felt like I was failing at something everyone else seemed to handle instinctively and perfectly.
Next, my body caught up.
The adrenaline wore off. The exhaustion deepened. Pain that had been muted by survival came rushing in. I was healing from a fourth-degree tear caused by an unconsented episiotomy. I had a UTI from a catheter. I was carrying unresolved birth trauma after a cascade of interventions from an induction that, in hindsight, was completely unnecessary, even though I was grateful to have had a vaginal birth.
Everything came crashing down within that first week.
I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I felt weak; physically, emotionally, mentally. And worse than that, I felt ashamed. Ashamed for struggling. Ashamed for needing help. Ashamed for feeling broken when, by all external measures, things had gone “fine.”
I didn’t yet understand that what I was experiencing wasn’t a personal failure. I was treating myself like complete shit for absolutely no reason. I had zero grace for myself.
It was the result of love being framed as performance.
Looking back now, I can see how deeply conditioned that mindset was. I believed that if I loved my baby enough, I would be able to power through. That rest was something you earned after proving you were capable. That pain was acceptable as long as the outcome was good.
But bodies don’t heal through willpower.
Nervous systems don’t regulate through pressure.
Postpartum recovery doesn’t respond to fake performance.
It responds to care.
That first postpartum experience changed everything about how I approached my second pregnancy and postpartum season. Not because I was “stronger,” but because I was better informed. I prepared differently. I advocated differently. I allowed myself to need more and to receive it. I had an incredible, intervention-free birth at a free-standing birth center under the care of midwives. It was a complete 180 shift, and I felt so amazingly supported and informed walking into that experience.
And now, as a midwife, I see this pattern constantly.
I see mothers minimizing their pain because they feel they should be grateful. I see people pushing themselves to host visitors, manage households, and “bounce back” while their bodies are still actively healing. I see the quiet shame that creeps in when postpartum doesn’t look the way they thought it would.
Still, it’s important to say this clearly:
My experience is not universal.
Just because my hospital birth was traumatic does not mean hospital births are traumatic. Many people have supported, empowering, and healing hospital experiences.
And just because my first postpartum was devastating does not mean someone else’s first will be. My struggle was shaped by being ill-informed, underprepared, and unsupported, not by birth order alone.
Postpartum outcomes are deeply personal. They are influenced by education, consent, support, expectations, and timing. There is no single story that applies to everyone.
But there is one truth I keep coming back to, as a mother and as a midwife:
Postpartum love does not need to be proven.
It doesn’t need to be visible, impressive, or self-sacrificing.
It doesn’t need to hurt to count.
Sometimes love looks like resting instead of pushing.
Sometimes it looks like asking for help sooner.
Sometimes it looks like choosing care over endurance.
And sometimes, it looks like letting go of the belief that struggling means you’re doing something wrong.
Postpartum doesn’t ask us to prove our love. It asks us to tend to ourselves with the same seriousness and care we offer our babies. That kind of love may not be loud, but it’s the kind that supports real healing.
If you’re in a postpartum season right now, or preparing for one, I share more reflections and practical support like this through my writing and offerings. You can explore those resources when and if they feel supportive.
With love,
Carley