It’s the end of another busy day in our household, and I’m sitting on the carpet in my son’s room, watching him play with our labradoodle, squealing and giggling with delight. He just turned one, and I can’t help but reflect on the contrast between the beauty of this moment and the horrific, intrusive thoughts that unfolded in my mind a year ago.

I’ve always wanted to be a mother and when it became clear that I may not be able to realise this dream, by following a more traditional path, I started investigating the options available to me through IVF. It took several years of reshaping my life - even moving from New Zealand to Sydney – before I could begin the process.

Nothing could have prepared me for the years that followed: chemical pregnancies, emergency room visits, an endometriosis diagnosis, multiple surgeries, miscarriages and a D&C with complications. IVF is a world of extremes– each cycle a beautiful window of hope, shattered by the brutality of loss. 

By the time I transferred my last little embryo, I was done. Somehow, against all odds I was pregnant! I was delighted and terrified in equal measure. Every milestone felt like a small miracle, but I couldn’t shake the fear that it would be taken away.

My pregnancy was marked by endless exhaustion and nausea. Multiple times each day, I expected to find a bleed, bracing myself for another loss. I lived, like an elastic band on the verge of snapping - stretched between the joy and wonder of growing a tiny human and the horror of losing a baby.

In hindsight, this fear of miscarrying, was an early sign of my anxiety starting to get out of control. At the time, it seemed like a rational reaction, given the mountains I had climbed to get there. 

My magical boy arrived safely, and I was euphoric for the first few days. I could not stop looking at him, holding him, breathing him in. I was smitten. 

I had a caesarean birth, and after a few days, the lack of movement, the sleep deprivation, the pain medication and the hormones overwhelmed me, and I had a massive panic attack. My heart racing, the hospital room closing in on me, I called one of the midwives for help. She offered me a cup of tea and told me to take some deep breaths.

Things went downhill from there. I was hypervigilant- every sound was amplified, every sense in my body on high alert. The most mundane items in my hospital room, triggered terrifying intrusive thoughts of harm coming to my son. Endless loops of gruesome images racing through my mind. I thought I was losing my mind. 

I was discharged. At home, I spiralled. The intrusive thoughts were everywhere, and I became increasingly distressed. I started to believe that I was an unfit mother and that my son would be taken from me.

Eventually, I went to see a local GP who specialised in postpartum care, and I will be forever grateful for her kindness and expertise. After a few visits, she recommended that I consider a stay at a Mother and Baby Unit (MBU) at a private mental health hospital.

Desperate to be healthy and make the most of those early days with my son, my son and I checked into the MBU when he was three weeks old. I never would have thought that we would spend our first weeks together in a psychiatric unit, but in the end, it was the best thing I could have done for us.

The healthcare team helped me understand that what I was experiencing wasn’t ‘crazy’. I read a book that helps parents understand and normalise scary thoughts after childbirth. It was cathartic – a lifeline. I began to learn strategies to tame my thoughts.

Slowly, I was able to be more in the moment with my beautiful boy, enjoying his little newborn snuggles and scrunches without being overwhelmed by terror. We left the MBU after a couple of weeks and stayed with friends for a few months before moving back home. 

And here I am, a year later with my son, my mind a lot calmer and able to share his marvel and wonder at the world. Every step of my journey with every challenge has made it possible for me to be here in this moment with my son. I wouldn’t change a thing. 

If you’re reading this from a place of terror, know that there is a way forward. I believe extreme joy and extreme fear can co-exist and they don’t cancel each other out. I came out on the other side without the shadow of anxiety clouding my relationship with my baby.  By reaching out for help, things got better.