“I can’t do this! Someone else would be a better mother for him. He deserves a better mom, not someone like me. I know nothing about being a mom. I don’t know how to do this! He deserves someone better, and that’s not me.”

I remember that afternoon vividly. I was sitting on the couch in my psychiatrist’s office, sobbing uncontrollably. Through tears, I confessed that I wanted to give up my baby for adoption because I truly believed someone else could be a better mom to Aidan. Day after day, my thoughts spiraled, telling me I wasn’t good enough for him. He deserved a “real mom”—someone who could love and care for him properly.

Dr. C listened to me empathetically, as she always did. It was only my third appointment with her after being referred by my GP and midwife. They had grown increasingly concerned about my condition following Aidan’s birth.

The birth itself had been traumatic. The baby was facing up, and complications arose, necessitating an emergency C-section. I was overwhelmed with fear throughout the procedure. After the surgery, I refused to see the baby for three days. I didn’t name him, didn’t even want to talk about him. Still hospitalized due to my fragile condition, I remained emotionally distant from my baby, who was also in the same hospital being monitored for jaundice.

On the third night, alone in my hospital room, I stared out at a world blanketed in snow. The silence was heavy. A sweet nurse came to check on me. She asked how I was and gently inquired about the baby.

“What’s his name?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied quietly. She smiled warmly, her kindness like a small beam of light breaking through the darkness.

“Give me a minute,” she said before stepping out of the room. Moments later, she returned with a small book in her hand.

“This is a baby names book,” she explained, handing it to me. “Take a look. Maybe you’ll find something that feels right.” Then, with another tender smile, she added, “It may not feel like it now, but have faith. It’s going to be okay.”

She left to tend to other patients, leaving me with the book. As I flipped through its pages, one name stood out: “Aidan,” meaning “little fire.” Something about it resonated. It felt like a spark of hope.

The next morning, I told the nurse I wanted to see the baby.

I went home with Aidan, beginning my new life as a mother. Yet, I had never felt so lost. My midwife visited weekly to check on me, growing increasingly worried. I was depressed, anxious, and unable to bond with my baby. I was adrift, struggling to make sense of my new reality.

My doctor suggested I see a psychiatrist for counseling, but I resisted. Looking back, much of that time is a blur. I pretended to be okay, wearing a mask of smiles around friends and family.

No one knew the depths of my suffering.

When people complimented Aidan—his cuteness, his friendly demeanor, his calmness—I thanked them politely, even as I felt hollow inside.

One day, my good friend Byron visited with his family. Byron had always been someone I could confide in without fear of judgment.

That afternoon, we all went to the beach. During a quiet moment, just the two of us and Aidan, I opened up.

“I can’t love Aidan,” I admitted, my voice trembling. “I don’t know how. I feel guilty, lost, and so confused.”

Byron listened without interrupting.

When I finished, he said gently, “It will come. The love will come. You can’t force it, but have faith that it will happen. Be patient with yourself. The love will come.”

I broke down in tears. The next day, I called my doctor and agreed to start doing conselling.

Recovery was a long journey. The counseling sessions were transformative, helping me open up and find the courage to ask for help. Slowly but surely, I began to heal. And Byron was right—the love did come.

This year on December, we celebrated Aidan’s 16th birthday. Today, we are more than just mother and son; we are best friends.

For Christmas, Aidan made me a card, and what he wrote in the card is the best gift I could have received.

This is what he wrote:

Merry Christmas Mama! I hope you have a jolly time today in this Christmas day! You know, Christmas is a day when you spend time with friends and family. Luckily (for me) you’re both of them, I’m happy that our bonds have gotten stronger, like we’re great friends. Thanks for being the greatest Mom and friend :). I love you Mama …

I am deeply grateful to God, my supportive friends and family, and the caring healthcare professionals who guided me through my darkest days. I would not be where I am today without them.

To anyone still battling depression, especially postpartum depression: please don’t give up.

Have faith.

There is light at the end of the tunnel.

The love will come.

Thank you for reading 🤗

– 🌻 Sophie ❤️