“You’re a midwife, you’ll be fine”: The six words Megan won’t forget

You’re a Midwife, you’ll be fine.”

6 words repeated to me.

6 words that caused added pressure.

6 words I’ve never forgotten.

I’d seen labour and birth over and over. I’d cared for the sickest and tiniest newborns as a Neonatal Intensive Care Nurse. I’d held the hands of many parents saying goodbye to their angels. I educated on breastfeeding, postpartum care and spent my days sensitively supporting new mothers experiencing the baby blues with my well-rehearsed keynote. I always finished my spiel with “if the tears or symptoms last longer than 2 weeks, we may need to consider extra support, and that is okay.

Never did I imagine it would be me needing the extra support.

After all, I’m a Midwife.

It wasn’t what I expected.

I wasn’t what I expected.

Societal expectations, along with the inevitable response to my subtle shout for help – “you’re a midwife, you’ll be fine!”, sadly led me to believe I had to be okay.

At 25 years young, fit and healthy, falling pregnant was more challenging than we’d expected. 

After 13 months, a referral to our wonderful fertility specialist, who we are forever grateful for, Dr Anthony Marren, countless daily blood tests for many months (there’s something about the people you meet at 6:30am each morning, all lined up for their fertility bloods ~ there’s an instant connection as you travel the same infertility path) a diagnosis of anovulation (absence of ovulation), multiple ultrasounds, a brain MRI to rule out a pituitary adenoma as a cause for the anovulation, months of self injections and oral medication, we were blessed with our first pregnancy. 

As a NICU Nurse and Midwife, I’d seen it all. The blessings to the unimaginable. The survival and the farewells. From my daily exposure of working with the 10% of the birthing population that don’t experience a healthy and normal pregnancy, labour or birth, I couldn’t allow myself to believe mine would be without complication.

It wasn’t what I knew. Instead, I failed to allow myself to bond with the baby during the pregnancy, just in case of tragedy. Looking back, this is where my anxiety really started. This is when I first needed support.

My baby boy was born following an uneventful pregnancy and a beautiful labour and birth, famously unusual for a midwife but just like that, my life changed. I met a new little human I’d grown and birthed, and I met a new me. 

I was unprepared for the biggest deviation I’d ever been dealt. Within 24 hours, I was overwhelmed by visitors, gushing over how perfect our baby was. I saw it too, through eyes looking in, however on the inside, I’d never felt so out of control, living in a world of unknown. I bonded well and felt the feels, cuddling him any chance I could in those early hours and days, but the fear of having to successfully care for him 24/7, began to steal my joy.

It was here I voiced my stress and anxiety in the hospital, multiple times. It was here I was repeatedly told, “you’re a Midwife, you’ll be fine.”

The first 4 weeks of his life are both a foggy blur and clear as anything. I had never felt so alone. I cried, what felt like constantly, for four weeks straight. I had no rhyme or reason. As the days went on, my anxiety heightened, if the opportunity arose for anyone else to hold or care for my baby, I grabbed it. I truly believed anyone would do a better job of caring for him than me, his Mum.

Enter my beautiful Early Childhood Nurse, gentle and kind. Small talk quickly led her to learn I was a NICU Nurse/Midwife. 

She finished her assessment of bub and suddenly her attention turned to me. Softly spoken, in a tone that captured me, she asked, “…and how are you?” with genuine care. Suddenly my baby wasn’t the most important focus, I was.

She saw me as a new Mum, met me where I needed to be met and took my Midwife hat off. I suddenly felt safe. She didn’t care what I did for a job as my skillset had nothing to do with my physical health, my hormones or brain health. She saw the pressure I had on my midwifery self to get it right (whatever “right” is!). For her short time with me, she’d read me like a book. A seasoned Early Childhood Nurse, she was quick to evaluate where I was heading.

She completed the Edinburgh Postnatal Depression Scale. I scored 13 and was deemed high risk of perinatal anxiety and depression.

The shame and failure at this point weighed heavy, however, the relief that the feelings, thoughts, emotions and fears, not only weren’t “normal” but had a title and could be treated, far outweighed the shame. 

I was sent to my GP to get a referral to a psychologist. My first appointment with the psychologist left me feeling incredibly judged and disappointed, enough to spin my thoughts of getting help. I refused to return. How quickly one poor interaction can send you into a completely different mindset. For me, I believed all psychologists were going to be the same.

There was no other option in my mind than to cope. Put one foot in front of the other, hand him to everyone else to look after him when they could and find some sort of normality. 

One of my biggest anxieties with a new baby was how I’d cope if he didn’t sleep. I knew I wouldn’t manage if this was the case and therefore had to grasp control of it early. I became so anxious that I got support from a sleep consultant very early. There was no reason to, he was doing well, other than to speak to my anxiety and ensure my sleep wasn’t poor night after night for months or years. I became so obsessed by it that I had to understand infant’s sleep myself and therefore signed up and completed a sleep consultancy course during my maternity leave. In hindsight, this was only to appease my anxieties.

Fast forward 21 months, another ovulation induction therapy pregnancy, my second baby was born.

Again, textbook labour and birth. 

This time in the hospital, despite declaring during the pregnancy my previous postnatal anxiety and (suspected) depression, I didn’t dare mention it once admitted to hospital in fear of being told “you’re a Midwife, you’ll be fine.”

My obstetrician knew as did the hospitals incredible social worker but I refused to tell the Midwives. Possibly to avoid what I knew I was going to need ~ help or to avoid my mental health being belittled or ignored because of my job.

Instead, I limited visitors in the hospital and when I came home to minimise the overwhelm. I found a routine with two. I got on with life, suppressing everything I was experiencing, feeling or thinking. 

I had 2 small goals that felt like climbing mountains ~ shower each day and leave the house for 10mins. A tip from the beautiful Social Worker.

My anxiety remained at bay until my return to work. In a 2 week period I was returning to the exhaustion of shift work and night duty in a brand new workplace, had my toddler starting pre-school for the first time and was leaving my baby girl for the first time. These firsts were triggers enough to cause the suppressed anxiety to be expelled at its greatest force. 

The panic attacks came without warning. I’d never experienced them before. 

They were every bit suffocating. 

I found myself in the gutter on the side of the road, hyperventilating, unable to breathe. Luckily I was able to call one of my nearest and dearest at that time to come to my side. To sit quietly with me and calm my breathing. My 1yo in the car, oblivious to what was happening to her Mum.

My world was broken. I was in pieces. This was my third panic attack in a week. My friend said to me, “you call a psychologist on Monday or I phone the community Mental Health Team.” For this direction, I am forever grateful to her.

The panic attacks and the downward trajectory in my mindset, accompanied by my incredible ability to overthink, left me spiralling out of control.

I woke every morning and before even opening my eyes, the voice in my head would say “I can’t do this today. I don’t want to be here.”

It was here I reached out for help. Far too late, but better now than never. 

I had a recommendation for a psychologist that was promised to be supportive and non-judgemental. I remember hanging the washing out, contemplating making contact and thought, “Just do it now. What’s to lose?” My fears and beliefs of therapy were quickly put to rest. My new psychologist was, and still is, everything. Professional, non-judgemental, committed, passionate, an incredible listener, quietly supportive and safe and wonderful at her job. Shame dies in safe places.

Despite her demeanour and how comfortable I felt with her, a diagnosis of Perinatal Depression and Anxiety was (oddly), still a shock. When you’re in that space, it’s hard to accept that this is actually where you’ve landed. Especially as a Midwife. 

I hit rock bottom and it got harder before it got easier. We unpacked my childhood, connecting the dots as to what may have contributed to ending up here. There was a lot to learn about myself but for this next 6 months, I lost more and more control as I got deeper into therapy. 

Sadly I found myself clinging on to the one thing I could control, food and exercise. I quickly found myself over exercising and under-eating. In a plea to just disappear, in fact I was doing quite the opposite.

It’s during times like these we need to be brave in how we speak to those we care about. So many people in my world would say to me, “you’ve lost so much weight!”

In my head at the time, this was a positive and a compliment and so it added fuel to continue. In reality, only now can I hear the difference. They were actually saying “you’ve lost a lot of weight, are you okay?” 

Each day, I’d run minimum 5kms and only eat dinner as that meal was always with my family. A difficult one to hide. Breakfast, lunch and snacks I could easily avoid or convince people I’d eaten. 

My psychologist didn’t have the ability to notice the weight loss as my mental health breakdown was during the COVID-19 pandemic and my therapy was online. So this too allowed me to continue this control and cycle. I hid it well until I couldn’t any longer. I’d hit an all time low weight of 57kgs at 6ft tall. I was exhausted and depleted. I now realise I was starving my brain which was exasperating the depression, causing poor sleep and a lack of energy to get better. I thought I had control but in fact, I was adding to the severity. It was here, along with my true belief that I couldn’t be the wife or mother my family deserved, or the nurse/midwife my patients deserved, that I did everything I could to not be involved. 

I wanted to run away. As soon as my husband was home, I’d make any excuse to leave at any time of the day or evening. I was withdrawn from my friends and I’d find myself just driving, normally ending up by the water. Sitting watching the ocean crash and rumble, feeling lost and sad. I’d never felt so sad. 

It was August 2020 that I realised this was rock bottom and I didn’t believe I’d ever get out of it. I had thoughts and fears of harming myself and found myself hiding the knife block that sat on the bench, in the cupboard. 

I genuinely believed everyone was better off without me, that I was a burden to my family, friends and colleagues. My relationships/friendships were breaking as I couldn’t hear the help or support being offered. I was watching my husband be completely capable at all things life without my help or support. In reality, he was a frustrated duck paddling for his life under water, looking calm on top whilst trying to stay strong for me. 

I wrote two letters.

One to my beautiful husband and one to the  close friend who had sat with me in the gutter that day a mere 5 months earlier.

I sat quietly and very calmly on a cliff edge knowing it was all going to be over. The pain and the sadness, but most importantly, everyone else could get on with their lives. 

I can’t tell you how long I was there for. I can’t explain how or why, but suddenly my beautiful girl crossed my mind. Whilst the depressed alter ego was speaking louder at the time, there was a little fire in my mind that was able to convince me she needed me as she grew up. My son had my husband as a role model but who would she have? She needed a strong female role model to show her how to fight, how to be brave, how to lead and succeed. They both needed to one day be able to say “that’s my Mum!”

I somehow got myself off the cliff that day and safely home. I was almost a statistic.

4 years later…

I still work with my psychologist and I can’t imagine my world without her.

4 years later…

It still scares me how quickly I ended up there and I think I’ll forever fear returning. At the moment, having that fear feels inevitable.

4 years later…

I now have education and strategies in place to implement if I start to slip. I have the strength to ask for help and those closest to me know if I do, I mean it.

4 years later…

I meditate daily having learnt the practice from my psychologist am I am now a qualified Mindfulness and Meditation Teacher.

4 years later…

I genuinely believed I’d never be able to work as a nurse/midwife again. I am now proud to be  the Midwifery Unit Manager of the postnatal ward in a hospital  I first trained as a midwife in and where I birthed my children.

4 years later…

I now know and understand more about myself thanks to my mental health journey.

I look back and recognise, whilst more than capable, my husband wasn’t thriving but just surviving to keep our household together during the worst 12 months and in fact, as a wife and mother, I am indeed needed.

I now have a passionate goal of raising awareness, sharing my story, and educating new parents on perinatal mental health.

I hope to implement programs to support others in their early parenting journey and advocate by being a significant voice and impact on working toward lowering the below devastating statistics:

• 1:5 new mothers and 1:10 new fathers are diagnosed with perinatal depression and anxiety in the first year of parenthood.
• Suicide remains the leading cause of death in new mothers in the first 12 months. Devastating.

I have to take this opportunity to thank my husband for his unwavering support during my depression and beyond.

To the incredible, indescribable social worker who walked with me, always believed I’d be okay and still to this day is a very close friend, thank you.

To my wonderful Obstetrician, Dr. Adam Mackie, who knew early in the piece I wasn’t okay and called me on his mobile, every evening on his way home, to check I was okay – thank you.

To the very few people in my life now who know my whole story and watch and support me each day. I know you’ve got me.

I have learnt so much about brain health, mental ill health, triggers, basic human needs, how we can all better look after our brains and strengthen its base function. Just like we go to the gym to strengthen our muscles and remain fit, we must keep our brain fit also. Something not educated on, or about, enough. 

I’ve learnt what sleep hygiene is and how important it is, along with nutrition, hydration, exercise, social connection and meditation. I will now do my part in teaching others this, in the hope of helping just one person.

It’s been 4 years since that winter of August 2020, but in reality I’ve only felt strong and actually “well” for 12 months. A lot more has happened in my life since 2020 including an unfathomable amount of grief and a hysterectomy at age 33. 

My mental health is now a constant means of work, but it’s not labour intensive, it’s strength, resilience and exciting to continue building. Everyone has mental health, it’s when it becomes mental ill health that we need to be able to first recognise and secondly ask for help. 

I still have my harder days/weeks and I now know this is okay and is for life.

The difference now is I’m aware my mental health will need work each day. I can recognise when I’m not quite okay and that I speak up to my closest people and ask for support.

If you are in this, or a similar place, you can and will be okay. 

Shame dies in safe places, so find yours and don’t give up until you do.