Dear Mama: This Isn’t a Magical Story

Not every motherhood story begins in joy.

Some start with pressure. Some with pain.

And some take years to be understood for what they really were.

This story was transcribed from a voice note —

because sometimes, when words won’t come through writing,

they flow through the voice, raw and unfiltered.

If you’re a mother holding your story quietly —

you can share it too, in any form that feels true.

Here is hers.

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There’s a certain pressure on married couples —

to have a baby within two or three years of marriage.

I gave in to that pressure,

without quite knowing what I was getting into.

This isn’t a magical motherhood story.

This is a story about trauma.

And about not even recognizing it until much later.

All my doctor’s appointments were in and around my hometown.

I longed for my husband to be with me —

to sit beside me, to see what I was going through.

But he was in another town,

excited and preparing for the baby.

From afar.

No one warned me about the mood swings,

the hormonal chaos,

the loneliness.

Being diagnosed with gestational diabetes only made it worse —

frightening, and at the same time, frustrating.

My baby was on the heavier side and came early.

My water broke. I told the staff I was in pain,

but they kept saying, “Not yet.”

I knew my own threshold — and I was at the edge.

But they dismissed it.

When the doctor finally checked,

they said I wasn’t dilated enough

and took me in for an emergency C-section.

Physically, the baby was healthy.

But mentally, I fell apart.

I was expected to smile through waves of visitors.

To act like nothing major had happened.

Even though inside, everything had changed.

I didn’t even have privacy while breastfeeding.

The postpartum midwife who came home enforced

strict, archaic customs.

No phone. No reading. No stepping out of my room.

Just me,

my constantly crying baby,

and a wall I stared at for hours

wondering what my life had become.

My family was kind — they gave me space when they could.

But neighbours and extended relatives were harsh.

They criticized me for not following customs “correctly.”

I didn’t feel right.

I had help, yes.

But the weight of everything still fell on me.

I felt completely unprepared.

It was like I’d been stripped of my identity —

my career, my clarity, my calm.

Everything blurred.

And somewhere, in that fog,

I began blaming my baby.

There were moments I wanted to hurt him.

Moments when I did.

And then I’d cry.

Holding him and sobbing,

feeling like a monster for the thoughts I had.

For the damage I feared I caused.

People don’t talk about this part of motherhood.

How it can feel like suffocation.

How you can love your baby

and still feel like they’re the reason you’re drowning.

Postpartum depression doesn’t always last a few months.

Sometimes it stretches across years,

especially when left unspoken, undiagnosed, unnamed.

And then COVID happened —

and the isolation dragged me back into the dark.

But eventually, I became self-aware.

I asked for help.

And I got it.

My second pregnancy was nothing like the first.

I drew boundaries. I spoke up.

And slowly, I felt like myself again.

I still carry guilt for those early days.

I pray that God forgives me

for the pain I caused my child.

But somehow —

he still looks at me with pure love.

To him, I am his world.

Maybe that’s the magic of motherhood.

— A mother who found herself in the dark, and came back

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If you’ve ever felt something similar, even silently —

you are not broken. You are not alone.

And your story, in any form, matters.

If you’d like to share it —

in writing or as a voice note —

this space is here to hold it, with care.

Share your story here