Real-Talk: Postpartum PTSD
By Alison Rodriguez
From a COVID miscarriage to a 30-week delivery and a NICU rollercoaster, here’s my real-talk about my path through postpartum PTSD and getting back to belly laughs.
Trigger warning: miscarriage, NICU triggers, post-traumatic stress disorder
30 Weeks, Zero Chill, Lots of Hope
My first pregnancy became my first plot twist thanks to 2020. I was seven weeks in with a mask on and jelly on the belly. The ultrasound tech went full horror-movie whisper: “Call your doctor immediately.”
Turns out I had a blighted ovum (basically an empty sac). I scheduled a D&C, walked in alone due to COVID rules, and rolled out a few hours later minus my #momlife dream and with a big, fat fear of ultrasound rooms.
Pregnant Again… but Placenta Previa Says “Sit Down”
The second time around, I was 37, thrilled, and apparently also navigating a rogue placenta parked on my cervix. The doc ordered “semi-bedrest” — translation: try to keep working, binge Netflix, and stay anxious every waking minute. Super fun.
Christmas Lights & ER Lights Don’t Mix
At 24 ½ weeks, a quick bathroom break at a holiday party turned into panic. I was bleeding as bright as Rudolph’s nose, so off to the ER I went. Twelve IV attempts later, I heard, “Baby’s okay, but your body might start labor early.” I didn’t know it yet, but this is where postpartum PTSD began.
Nine days of hospital bedrest, a bazillion specialist visits, magnesium drips, and “please-don’t-move-too-much-or-we-might-redo-the-IV” chaos followed. I was released a few days before Christmas with a bingo card full of emotions.
Water Breaks at 30 Weeks and Nobody Believes Me
You can’t make this stuff up. It’s the middle of the night. Gushhhh. I drove myself in because COVID still hated birth partners. Nurses swore I was just gassy (respectfully, no). Four hours later, a doctor burst in, found me at 4 cm, and shouted, “She’s in labor!” My placenta had moved, so we ditched the C-section plan and sprinted toward a tiny natural birth.
Fifteen people in the room, a few pushes, and there she was — two pounds, zipped into a plastic “turkey bag,” and rushed off to the NICU before I could even see her face.
Eight Weeks of Beeps, Wires, & Coffee Breath
NICU life is its own universe: nonstop alarms, scrubs in every pattern, daily weight checks in grams, wires everywhere.
I tracked every milliliter she ate and asked a million questions while my brain ran a marathon. My body wouldn’t make milk (hi, mom guilt). Formula shortage? Perfect timing. Flashbacks of IV needles any time they touched my tiny baby? The not-so-delicious cherry on top of full-blown postpartum PTSD.
Finally Home… And Still Wide-Awake
Two months later she came home at 4 lbs 8 oz, and the real night shift began. No monitors, no nurses… just me confirming her breathing every ten minutes.
I was terrified, second-guessed every bottle, and could still smell NICU soap in my own shower. Each day was a loop of no sleep, hyper-vigilance, and tears, served with a hefty side of postpartum PTSD and mega anxiety.
Putting a Name to the Chaos
At my six-month check-up, I ugly-cried through the screening, and my OB finally named it: postpartum PTSD with a side of anxiety. I wasn’t “just tired”; I was reliving medical trauma on repeat.
We upped my anxiety meds and brainstormed ways to silence the “I failed her” soundtrack. There were endless skin-to-skin snuggle marathons, and a white-noise machine that drowned out phantom NICU alarms. My husband — still my absolute rock — handled my chaos with more strength than I knew was possible (and, let’s be honest, he still does).
Stuff I Wish Someone Had Yelled From the Rooftop
- Premature birth = double to triple the risk of postpartum PTSD. Not the baby blues.
- About 10% of parents are diagnosed (preemie parents top the list).
- Hospital staff = warm blankets for your soul. Ask every weird question and let them support you.
- Partners need check-ins. My husband is the PB to my jelly; and I had to remind myself to make sure he was OK too.
Three Years Later: Laughter Is Like Air Over Here
One random Tuesday, when my daughter was about nine months old, she belly-laughed at our dog. I realized I wasn’t waiting for a monitor alarm in my head — that’s when the postpartum PTSD fog began to lift.
Healing isn’t linear, but each day gets a smidge easier, and a lot louder (toddlers are noisy). I definitely still overanalyze, but now our days are filled with giggles, and it’s the sweetest sound ever.
If You’re Reading This With Tears in Your Eyes
Grab your phone. Text a friend: “I think I’m dealing with postpartum PTSD.” Hit send before your brain talks you out of it.
NICU parents, loss parents, really any parents: you and I are living proof that the worst night of your life can coexist with the happiest parenthood moments. Hang on. Eventually, the only alert you’ll hear is your little one yelling “Mamaaaa!” from the next room.
About the Author
Alison Rodriguez
Alison Rodriguez, VP of the Board of Directors for Seedling Psychological Services and mental health advocate for moms, has a marketing and graphic design background. She’s spent her career telling stories that connect with others, but nothing could’ve prepared her for the story she’d be living when her daughter was born two months early. All of a sudden, my world shifted to preemie milestones, NICU nights, and the steep climb through postpartum PTSD and PPD.
After her postpartum experience, she’s shifted her mindset, mission, and entire career into supporting moms and mental health. Alison is all about building connections that matter, because let’s face it — none of us should be doing this alone.
