Why Didn't Anyone Warn Me?

Why didn’t anyone warn me that I was about to walk into the kind of storm that would pull me apart? A thrashing of epic proportions that would exhaust me, push me, test me, throw me over the edge. Why didn’t anyone warn me what postpartum was really like?

Yes, I had been warned about sleepless nights. And I knew about crying babies. I was ready for sore nipples and dirty diapers.

But why didn’t anyone tell me about -

  • Bloody pads the size of diapers and stitches that itched and throbbed

  • A brain that wouldn’t work and seemingly had turned to mush overnight

  • Never-ending thought storms of anxiety - what if my baby got sick, what if he wasn’t getting enough to eat, what if all this crying meant there was something really wrong with him, what if, what if, what if

  • Intrusive thoughts that stole their way into my mind and threatened imminent danger

  • The constant questioning of my own ability and self worth

  • The anger and rage that blindsided me and anyone in my path

Why didn’t anyone warn me about all of these things that would shatter me and leave me broken, no longer the woman I was before I gave birth?

But also why didn’t anyone warn me about the birth of not just a child but something so much bigger. The birth of unconditional love and a swelling of my heart that would nearly burst.

Why didn’t anyone tell me about -

  • The warm heft of my baby’s body, scrunched on my chest, and the smell of his milk-drunk breath filling my nostrils

  • The first smile that melted me and turned my world brighter

  • The tiny fingers brushing my face, grasping at loose strands of hair, refusing to let me go

  • A deep, hearty belly laugh, the likes of which I had never heard before and that penetrated right to my core

  • The look of someone who saw me as his whole world and who I knew would forever and always be mine

Postpartum might have ripped me to pieces but it also stitched me back together. Making me whole again, but also entirely new. A version of myself never seen before and not entirely understood, but me nonetheless. Daughter. Friend. Wife. Mother. Me.

Kelly Rutan