It’s 5 a.m. My heart is racing and I’m sitting on the bathroom floor, phone in hand, and I’m desperately, frantically dialing numbers in my contacts, willing someone to answer. Anyone. Eventually my dad picks up. It’s the fifth time I’ve called him that night and the fifth day in a row that I’ve sat in this same spot at this same time. I’m ranting incoherently that I still can’t sleep, that I won’t ever be able to sleep again, and that, at this rate, I’ll either be institutionalized or die. My father tries to rationalize with me that I’ll be fine, but it doesn’t help. I can’t sleep and my body won’t even let me yawn. Meanwhile, in the other room, my husband and, ironically, my newborn are sleeping soundly. This isn’t your standard “I’m a new mom and my baby keeps me awake” syndrome. This is postpartum insomnia and it’s ruining my life.
Three months after I gave birth in 2019, I woke up one night expecting my baby to wake up at around that time too. But he kept sleeping—and I suddenly became very acutely aware that I couldn’t get back to sleep. For some reason, that awareness made me panic—and for the next three months I basically couldn’t sleep. Eventually I sought help and was able to recover, but acknowledging that postpartum insomnia is real and that guidance is available were the first steps I needed to take.
This isn’t your standard “I’m a new mom and my baby keeps me awake” syndrome. This is postpartum insomnia and it’s ruining my life.
Before I had a baby, I had always been an unremarkable sleeper. Napping came very naturally to me and, especially during pregnancy, I was in a perpetual haze of somnolence. Sleep, when it isn’t an issue, is something I rarely think of, in terms of the mechanics. It happens, it’s natural, and it’s always been inevitable. This is why, when I couldn’t manage to drift off, I started to panic.
Postpartum insomnia is a very real condition where a new mom (and sometimes a new dad) is unable to sleep even though her baby can. It is also completely counterintuitive: You’re obsessed with the idea that you need to sleep, but that same pressure prevents you from doing so. It’s a vicious cycle that, if sustained, can lead to postpartum depression. And I can see how! Who doesn’t want to sleep? Who wants to be burdened with the idea that if you don’t sleep, you’ll lose your mind, collapse, or hurt the baby? During every sleepless episode, as insane as it sounds, I was convinced that this was the way my life was going to continue. When it would get dark at 4 p.m. in the winter, I would instantly start to panic, dreading the time I would need to sleep and convincing myself I wouldn’t be able to. Of course, this became a self-fulfilling prophecy.
I would spend my nights calling my parents, friends abroad (oh, glorious time difference), and hotlines; I would spend hours perusing insomnia forums (a terrible idea!) and only freak myself out further reading horrifying first-person accounts. I would even write down every thought I had in the hope that, by putting pen to paper, they would start to make sense. I cannot emphasize what sleeplessness does to your mind. All sense of reasoning breaks down and, simply put, you feel utterly stuck.
I needed relief, and instantly. I Googled in-network providers and booked multiple appointments with mental health professionals. We’re talking psychologists, psychiatrists, and psychotherapists, and I even sought counsel from a nutritionist (due to the overwhelming costs of giving birth in the United States, I had reached my deductible almost as soon as my baby left my body, so “luckily” most of these costs were now completely covered) . I kept hopping from specialist to specialist because, despite their empathy and compassion, they weren’t telling me why this insomnia happened in the first place. Instead, I was diagnosed with postpartum anxiety and told to read a book, exercise during the day, and steer clear of coffee or other stimulants: all healthy adjustments that helped my mindset temporarily during the day but didn’t fix the gnawing sensation that would arise come nightfall. Consequently, I remained frustrated. These specialists were also adamant about one crucial factor: that my condition was not abnormal and would pass. And this was the crux of it: Postpartum insomnia, like many postpartum conditions, is normal. But when you’re in the thick of it, being told so doesn’t necessarily give you any relief. It doesn’t fix anything to simply know it’s common when all you want is a solution.
I cannot emphasize what sleeplessness does to your mind. All sense of reasoning breaks down and, simply put, you feel utterly stuck.
Eventually, I found (yet another!) therapist who devised a plan to tackle this head on, and my mother was able to fly in to help me enact it. I had to first address the sleeplessness by taking sleeping pills for several days to fully break the cycle. Once I had regained some semblance of my former self, we looked at ways to deal with the anxiety. In the end, the therapist identified the root of the issue as panic with adrenaline surging through my body preventing me from sleep. The panic stemmed from the underlying fact that I was already fine-tuned to waking up during the night and was intrinsically worried that if I didn’t wake up, the baby would suffer or starve. The insomnia exacerbated these thoughts because I truly thought that, without me sleeping, the baby would suffer further during the day with a drowsy, careless mother. I was feeling sleep deprived and, worse, incompetent. The therapist helped me accept these intrusive thoughts and understand that they were not true: that the baby was going to be okay and that it was I that needed the support. I needed to make some changes to my routine: My husband adjusted his hours at work to come home much earlier to help out; we explored child care assistance; and I decided to use anti-anxiety medication as a means to quell some of the anxiety (a method, I was reassured by a reproductive specialist, that was safe during breastfeeding).
It may have taken me some time to realize this, but my greatest takeaway from this experience was that new moms need help too. As a pregnant woman, I had felt so nurtured and attended to. Even the monthly appointments with my OB-GYN felt like a mental, as well as physical, check-in. But as a new mom, once the ogling had stopped and everyone had returned to work, I couldn’t have felt more isolated. My experience made me start talking more frankly with my newfound mom friends about what I was going through, and I soon realized that everyone I spoke to was going through something, whether it was anxiety, depression, or simply feelings of helplessness. Help, it seemed, was a commodity we all needed but didn’t necessarily have access to.
My experience made me start talking more frankly with my newfound mom friends about what I was going through, and I soon realized that everyone I spoke to was going through something, whether it was anxiety, depression, or simply feelings of helplessness.
But resources, albeit sparse, are available for new mothers. Sites like Postpartum Support International were invaluable to me, because they provided guidance from real moms who had gone through postpartum insomnia and lived to tell the tale. Mental health specialists are also available—some even at low or no cost—and having people come check in on you after you give birth goes a long way too. Often, however, we don’t seek these resources out until we’re in the thick of a crisis. I, personally, don’t feel as though the insomnia is gone forever, but I, thankfully, now feel relieved knowing that I have the tools and resources to keep it at bay. Having a baby can be glorious and draining. Knowing where to turn and accepting that I needed help, in whatever form, was definitely my first step in regaining my sense of self.
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