The Day I Finally Said "I'm Not Okay"

Everyone said the first weeks would be magical. Mine were grey. My son was healthy, my milk came in, my mother cooked for me — by every checklist, I was lucky. So why did I cry when the sun set? Why did I stand over his cot at 3 a.m. feeling nothing, then feel monstrous for feeling nothing?

I thought I was just tired. Indian mothers are supposed to be tired and grateful, not sad. There's no word for this in the language my grandmother used. So I performed okay. I posted the photos. I said "we're settling in beautifully."

The day it cracked open, I was making tea and I burned my hand on the kettle and I sat down on the kitchen floor and could not get up. My husband found me there. He didn't tell me to cheer up. He sat down next to me on the floor and said, "Tell me what's actually happening."

So I told him. The flatness. The intrusive, frightening thoughts. The guilt. Saying it out loud was like setting down a bag I hadn't realised was breaking my back.

We went to my doctor together. She listened, told me this was common, that it had a name, that it was not my fault and not a verdict on my love for my son. That sentence — "it is not a measure of how much you love him" — is the one I needed most.

Recovery wasn't a switch. It was therapy, some help from my doctor, my husband taking the dawn feeds, my mother learning to ask "how are you" instead of "is the baby feeding." Slowly, colour came back.

My son is two now and I love him with a fierceness that frightens me in the best way. If you are in the grey, please say the sentence I couldn't say for weeks: I'm not okay. It is not weakness. It might be the bravest, most loving thing you do.