One month after I gave birth to our son, my wife and I were sitting on the floor of our kitchen. I was sobbing, big heaving sobs, trying to catch my breath. She was holding me. Our tiny boy was sleeping soundly in his bassinet. His soft breath came in uneven little tufts of air. The sweet smell of a newborn filled our bedroom.
I was crying because, once again, I’d been trying to sleep—to no avail. After our son had fallen asleep, I’d tried to sink into slumber as well. But no dice. Instead I lay there, mind spinning, heart like a freight train in my chest, muscles tensed and … nothing. Songs sped through my head at twice their usual speed. Fragments of conversations I’d had earlier that day (or maybe yesterday? I couldn’t tell the days apart anymore) repeated themselves endlessly in my mind’s ear.
I’d been warned about postpartum depression and anxiety, but postpartum insomnia was a new one that I was learning about firsthand and unexpectedly.
It was a waking nightmare.
Soon, I knew, he would wake up and I would have wasted yet another opportunity to get some rest. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept for more than an hour or two. Had it been days? Weeks? Sleep while they sleep, everyone had told me before he was born. Turned out, it was not that simple.
I’d been warned about postpartum depression and anxiety, but postpartum insomnia was a new one that I was learning about firsthand and unexpectedly. One study from 2017 found “a very high prevalence of an insomnia disorder (approximately 60 percent) both before and immediately after childbirth.” It goes on to say that 4 out of 10 women still suffer from insomnia two years after childbirth. That’s nearly half of us.
Recommended treatments, according to the innumerable websites I looked at, bleary-eyed and weeping, included limiting caffeine, taking long baths, using essential oils like lavender, limiting stressful environments, and meditating.
Had any of these people ever been a new mom? These ideas seemed ridiculous, not to mention implausible.
Nevertheless, my wife and family rallied to help me. They helped to make time for me to take baths with lavender oil. My wife got up with me when I fed our son and took over some feedings. My mom recommended a meditation app; I downloaded it and tried each day to breathe through the pain in my ever-tightening chest. I drank no caffeine.
The longer I went without sleep, the more anxious I became; insomnia and anxiety go hand in hand and feed each other like gluttonous little demons.
Still, I was getting nearly no sleep. When I did manage to drift off I had violent nightmares—images far too terrifying to write here. I would wake from these sweating and feeling as though I hadn’t slept at all. I could feel the exhaustion in every molecule of my being. My thoughts were scrambled. Often, I started a sentence only to trail off having forgotten I was speaking. I cried almost every day. I was living in an endless fever dream.
The longer I went without sleep, the more anxious I became; insomnia and anxiety go hand in hand and feed each other like gluttonous little demons. I lay in bed or on the couch wondering, Is he breathing? Did I turn off the stove? Is that sound someone breaking into our house? Does he know that I’m worried all the time? Am I neglecting him when I just can’t get up? Am I a bad mom for wanting a few minutes just to myself? Will I ever sleep again? Is this just my life now? On and on, the thoughts kept coming. My wife slept next to me, and I could hear her deep breaths in the darkness of our room. I lay beside her night after night, day after day, wide awake and panicking.
Maybe the lavender oil and meditation had some effect, but I eventually had to forge my own path. When my son was five months old things began to get better, but a month later the problems resurfaced. Half a year after his birth and I’m still not sleeping like I used to.
But what has helped me has been an amalgam of things that I adhere to now like the tenets of a newfound religion. It took time to figure these out, but now that I have, I hold fast to them like the life raft that they are. I couldn’t have figured out or stuck to any of these without my wife’s support and her understanding that making these happen is critical to our well-being as a family.
First, therapy. I see my therapist once a week and this is sacred time. No matter what else is happening or how much pumping is necessary to make it happen, I make it to that session.
As I continue to find my way out of the wilderness it helps to remember that I’m not alone and I’m not crazy.
Second, community. Making connections with other moms who are going through or have gone through similar things is key. I cannot stress this enough. The Motherhood Center of New York has wonderful programs and support groups for new moms and their partners. If I can’t make it to those, I reach out to friends who are moms over the phone to vent, cry, and share. Once, I called my friend in Israel and just sobbed into the phone while she listened and told me it was going to be OK.
Third, physical self-care. This means different things for different people. For me, it means going outside every day, even if it’s just for a 10-minute walk. It also means showering every day, even if it’s only for five minutes. I also try to do something physical every day—a walk, the gym, a YouTube yoga video—to release some of the pent-up nervous energy. It has also meant taking blood tests for hyperthyroidism (a common cause of postpartum insomnia) and meeting with a psychiatrist who prescribed anti-anxiety medication that I can take while breastfeeding. It turns out that there are options out there.
Lastly, I try not to look at a screen after I put my baby to sleep. When I wake up to feed our little one in the middle of the night, I sit and breathe in the darkness. Screens jumpstart the exact kind of anxiety I’m trying to quiet.
As I continue to find my way out of the wilderness it helps to remember that I’m not alone and I’m not crazy. There are so many other women who are suffering just as I have. For some of us, this is just another part of the absurd, wonderful, dizzying transition into motherhood. The more the dust settles, the more I’m able to see where I’m standing. Turns out, it’s where so many of us are standing: shaky but strong, on our two feet.