We have all heard the euphoric tropes surrounding the moments you first see your child. Some say it’s like a new part of their heart becomes unlocked. Others say it is like finding the true meaning of life. We’ve all heard the common saying, “You don’t really know what love is until you become a parent.” But that’s not always how it works when having a baby after stillbirth.

But what if it wasn’t that way for you?

Or what if it was that way for one child, but not for the other?

Does that mean you’re less of a parent?

Less of a person?

Does it mean you’re not really capable of love?

F* no it doesn’t.

On Feeling Detached During Pregnancy

I spent the entirety of my first pregnancy detached from the baby I was growing.

After battling with Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS) for two years and suffering a miscarriage before finally conceiving my exquisite, sweet, gentle Senna, the whole pregnancy was surreal. I called myself a human incubator, and joked about simply being a vessel for my “parasite.”

I felt such an immense responsibility, and a lot of uncertainty about what I had gotten myself into.

No one, aside from ourselves, has as much of an impact on who we become than our parents, and I was petrified to have that much influence on someone.

Don’t get me wrong, I still I felt excitement. I would daydream of the good things I hoped I was in for. I doodled her name into my notebooks at work, and I smiled everytime she kicked. But still, I was scared and unsure.

Then She Was Born

And it was like every storyline in my life connected and everything made sense.

I felt such immense pride and the bond was instantaneous. I felt nothing but pure, maternal attachment to my 8lbs 4oz bundle of perfection who looked like a clone of her father, but with my ears. As I held her up above me, marveling in all 23 inches of her, I exclaimed, “I made this!”

I was in awe. I felt so lucky. She was everything I dreamt of and so much more. Even though we were just meeting, it felt as if I had known her all my life. She was mine and I was hers. Forever. No matter what.

It was a love I’d never experienced before: A love that knows no bounds.

Not even her own mortality.

You see, Senna Lynn was born without a heartbeat. She was, as people like to say, stillborn. It was true she was perfect. Dare I say she was even healthy until those last hours.

My overwhelming love for her, my sense of being her mother, was so strong and immediate enough that it overpowered a lot of the logistics of birthing a dead baby. It stared death in the face and said “I don’t care. I am her mother!”

After Senna’s Death, I Quickly Fell Pregnant Again

But when it came time for me to meet my next baby, the experience was completely different.

After a pregnancy full of anxiety and ambivalence, Cyan came out screaming after one single push. To this day, I joke that she fell out. I sneezed, and then there we were.

I was a mother to a fresh, breathing, lovely baby. But I was trapped behind some sort of invisible forcefield that prevented me from feeling that same sense of awe & amazement I felt with Senna just 10 months prior.

On Birth and Detachment

Within an hour, after all the medical staff left the room, I called my nurse back in and explained that Cyan didn’t feel like mine. Her assurances that the bond would come, that what I was experiencing was normal, went in one ear and out the other.

As I stared at my newborn bundled up in the bassinet next to me, I searched the depths of my heart for the sentiments I had so desperately spent the past 37 weeks waiting for.

But all I could find was dread, sorrow, a deep sense of responsibility, and confusion. After returning home, my feelings evolved slowly. As time went on, my state of mind continued to deteriorate. Guilt and hopelessness dominated my psyche.

Fear of losing Cyan just like I lost Senna made me know I loved her, but I didn’t feel it.

All I felt with unworthy, fatigued, and bereaved.

How in the world could I go through losing a child, but yet feel such ambivalence towards the child I have who is breathing?

This Is Postpartum Depression

I know now that what I was going through wasn’t my fault. I’m thankful there are resources available to help women experiencing postpartum mood disorders.

I now know the feelings I was grappling with back then are not representative of the adoration and bond with Cyan I have now. Rather, they are symptoms of Postpartum Depression.

This perinatal mood disorder prevented me from experiencing that recurrence of of absolute, overcoming wonder with Cyan.

In those first months with Cyan, my maternal love didn’t look like it does in movies. It wasn’t cuddling in bed together, or spending hours just staring at my baby sleeping. It wasn’t cooing back and forth or dressing her in little outfits to show her off to my friends. In many ways, it rarely is.

Rather, it was dragging myself to the doctors and asking for help even though it was the last thing I wanted to do. It was taking care of myself first so I could overcome Postpartum Depression to stay alive, which would one day allow me to nourish the relationship I now have with Cyan.

My “she hung the stars and the moon” moment with Cyan eventually came months later, on a mundane day of the week when she looked at me in a way only she can. It stopped me in my tracks and took my breath away. I walked away from it feeling triumphant and forever changed.

And then I realised, not only does love look different for each mother, it can look different for each child.

The fact that it took more time for that feeling to come makes me no less of Cyan’s mother than I am Senna’s. We all experience motherhood differently, both person-to-person, and child-to-child.

My love for Senna defies mortality, and my love for Cyan defied the sinister voices in my head that told me I didn’t deserve to live anymore.

All the same, they’re both versions of a mother’s love.