Slow, Messy, and Better: Postpartum Anxiety and OCD
A Note From Edith Institute
At Edith Institute, we believe change starts with truth-telling. That means sharing our own vulnerable stories, even when they are slow, messy, and unfinished. This blog is a personal account from our founder, who hopes that by naming her struggles with postpartum anxiety and OCD, other mothers will know they are not alone and that healing, while not instant, is possible.
At 39 weeks during my first pregnancy, I was admitted to be induced due to gestational hypertension (pregnancy-related high blood pressure). My son’s heart rate was also elevated, and the doctors were concerned—especially given everything we’d already been through: a shortened cervix, an emergency cerclage, and a high-risk pregnancy from early on.
I had spent 19 weeks doing very little physically in an effort to avoid early labor. My medical team didn’t officially place me on bed rest, but they strongly recommended I limit movement. That meant no long walks, no lifting anything over 10 pounds, and no intimacy with my husband. It was a long, isolating stretch of time. I didn’t fully realize until my second pregnancy how much keeping a pregnant body moving can support not just the physical toll of labor, but mental health too.
After all that stillness, labor was intense. I was in labor for 20 hours and pushed for more than two hours without progress. Eventually, it took an emergency c-section for my son to enter the world. I was completely exhausted. The combination of a long labor, prolonged pushing, and major surgery left my body feeling like it had been through battle. When I got pregnant again, I was determined to have more energy—to be more present when my daughter was born, instead of feeling like a puddle of exhaustion.
Although I grieved the possibility of a natural birth the second time around, I eventually committed to a scheduled c-section. My daughter confirmed the decision by staying firmly breech, showing no signs of turning. When the scheduled date was pushed up by a week due to another diagnosis of gestational hypertension, I felt ready.
And then life reminded me how little we can actually control.
My daughter was born, and then came the silence. I wasn’t hearing that telltale newborn cry. She had aspirated fluid during delivery, damaging her lungs, and was rushed to the NICU. I was wheeled back to my hospital room alone. The dreams I had of holding her right away, of that first moment of bonding, just evaporated.
In hindsight, it’s no wonder I developed both postpartum anxiety and OCD. We are not beings of pure intellect, nor are we creatures solely controlled by our bodies. When my mind feels out of control—cycling through anxious thoughts, wishing they would stop, and then circling right back—I’m reminded how our bodies can do the same. My cervix opening early. My hormones cycling out of balance (I have polycystic ovarian syndrome). Even when it feels like my body and mind are shouting at each other across a great divide, they still depend on each other. When one struggles, both do.
“Even when it feels like my body and mind are shouting at each other across a great divide, they still depend on each other. When one struggles, both do.”
When I brought my daughter home from the NICU, I hoped a sense of normalcy would settle in. I wasn’t new to the chaos a newborn brings, and I leaned into all the precious moments—counting her tiny fingers and toes, feeling her weight on my chest, listening to her little coos and grunts as she ate. I also expected some worry. Her lungs had been damaged, after all.
But the first moment I realized my anxiety might be tipping into something unmanageable was when I began dreading the stairs. Our home, built in the 1920s, has a basement, a main floor, a second floor, and a finished attic. Stairs are part of life. And yet I kept having these vivid, terrifying visions of her falling down them—sometimes graphic. I would alternate between rushing down, clutching the railing tightly, and taking each step slowly, deliberately. Only later did I realize: I never had those kinds of thoughts with my son.
Thankfully, one of the day nurses during my hospital stay had expressed some concerns about my mental health and made sure I scheduled follow-up appointments before I was discharged. During the four days I was admitted, she noticed how often I wept, how I couldn’t sleep without my baby in the room. She had seen enough births to recognize the early signs of what would become my postpartum struggles. Because of her, I found myself two months later in a psychiatrist’s office—one who specializes in maternal mental health—hearing, for the first time, that I was experiencing postpartum anxiety and OCD.
The constant checking on my daughter’s breathing. The intrusive images of her falling down the stairs. These weren’t just “new mom worries.” They were classic signs of compulsions and intrusive thoughts tied to my overwhelming desire to keep her safe.
“These weren’t just ‘new mom worries.’ They were classic signs of compulsions and intrusive thoughts tied to my overwhelming desire to keep her safe.”
At my daughter’s six-month milestone, I wish I could say my symptoms are gone. I wish I could offer a neat resolution for mothers dealing with postpartum mental illness—a story tied up with a bow, pretty and rewarding at the end.
But like so many health journeys, mine doesn’t look like that. What I have instead is a slow easing of symptoms, interrupted by flare-ups when new environments trigger old intrusive thoughts about safety. There isn’t a single breakthrough or quick fix—just therapy appointments, psychiatric check-ins, and the ongoing work in between to keep chipping away at the anxiety. There’s nothing glamorous about it. No magic trick to sell, no supplement to take. It’s messy, slow, and unremarkable at times—but it does get better.
“There isn’t a single breakthrough or quick fix—just therapy appointments, psychiatric check-ins, and the ongoing work in between to keep chipping away at the anxiety. ”
What I’ve needed most is a toolbox, filled with many kinds of support. For me, that looks like family and friends, therapy, medication, and daily reminders to prioritize activities that calm me. I can now walk up the stairs without intrusive thoughts, though balconies still unsettle me and I tend to avoid them. I’m working on it—pushing myself little by little—and I can see that overall, I’m becoming more comfortable.
I can’t offer a simple solution to other mothers. But I can offer this: you are not alone, and it really does get better.
