I remember the day I found out I was pregnant.
I had been dealing with painful cramps for days and, like I often do, my mind jumped straight to worst-case scenarios. I was convinced it was something serious, maybe pelvic inflammatory disease. When I went to the doctor, the nurse casually handed me a pregnancy test. From behind the curtain, I overheard her say, “Oh shit, she’s pregnant!”
For a second, I didn’t think she was talking about me.
My husband and I thought we were being careful. We wanted at least two years to travel, grow closer, and enjoy each other before bringing a child into the world. But when she walked back into the room smiling, I couldn’t help but smile too. I was going to be a mother.
Around that same time, everything else in our lives fell apart.
My husband was forced to step away from his position as Chief Executive Director at CAIR after his ex-wife launched a calculated smear campaign against him. I watched the strongest man I know go from respected and purposeful to humiliated and deeply depressed almost overnight.
We packed our lives into suitcases, cat included, and moved to New York City for a real estate job that paid well but drained him. He wasn’t doing what he loved anymore. He wasn’t fighting injustice. He wasn’t lit up by his work.
Still, we had each other. And that mattered more than anything.
Physically, pregnancy wasn’t easy either. I developed Hyperemesis Gravidarum and couldn’t keep food down for months. I stayed underweight for most of my pregnancy. I truly believe severe nausea like this is linked to thyroid dysregulation, when hCG spikes stimulate the thyroid and the body can’t keep up. On top of that, I got COVID while pregnant. It felt like one hit after another.
At 32 weeks, I was officially diagnosed with hypothyroidism.
The word “too late” was mentioned. Too late for medication to help. Too late to change outcomes. Hearing that while carrying a child is a fear I can’t even describe. I went home convinced something terrible would happen during delivery. I begged Allah to protect me. I was terrified of bleeding out.
I did the only thing I knew how to do, I supported my body gently. I moved more. I drank ginger every single day. Ginger supported circulation and metabolism, exactly what my body needed.
When my daughter was born healthy and perfect, it was the best day of my life. But no one really prepares you for what comes after.
Postpartum depression isn’t just the “baby blues.” It lingers. It sinks in. It affects how you function, how you feel about yourself, and sometimes how connected you feel to the world around you.
For me, it was a full-body experience, hormones shifting, sleep deprivation, nutrient depletion, identity loss, and emotional overload all at once.
Sleep deprivation was brutal.
Weeks without real sleep changed everything. My mood. My patience. My ability to regulate emotions. At my lowest, dreams blurred into reality. Lack of sleep makes everything heavier. My daughter struggled with formula at first, colic and constipation, which meant even less rest for me. By the time my milk supply came in, I was already exhausted.
And no, “sleep when the baby sleeps” never worked for me.
When she slept, that was my only quiet moment to pray, clean, breathe, or just exist. I’ve never been someone who can nap on command.
Another unexpected struggle was body image.
I didn’t recognize myself anymore. I had always been active and small, and suddenly my body felt unfamiliar. Comments about “bouncing back,” even when casually said, landed hard.
It wasn’t until my daughter turned one that I found the motivation to lose the weight. I did it quickly, but I wouldn’t recommend that path for everyone.
Healing isn’t about forcing your body to return to who it was. It’s about honoring what it’s been through.
Nourishment mattered more than anything.
Warm, grounding foods like bone broth, lentil soups, oatmeal with ghee, and stews helped me feel human again. Cold, raw foods didn’t serve me in that season. Once I started eating in a way that matched my depleted, cold, dry terrain, I could feel my body slowly rebuilding.
Movement helped too. Gentle stretching, stroller walks, restorative yoga. Eventually, co-sleeping gave me longer stretches of rest and deepened my bond with my daughter. It felt natural to me, and I made sure to do it safely.
Writing also became my therapy time and time again. I returned to my private blog and some other writing projects (incomplete novels) I had abandoned years prior and let creativity help me process everything I couldn’t say out loud.
Spiritually, grounding myself saved me.
Prayer, dua, Qur’an, quiet moments. Even small rituals like tea, sunsets, or watching a movie in the hammock reminded me I was still a whole person, not just a mother.
Postpartum healing isn’t linear.
Sometimes rest isn’t sleep. Sometimes it’s a shower. A walk. Five uninterrupted minutes of breathing. If you’re in that season, you’re not broken.
Healing doesn’t come from doing everything “right.” It comes from listening to your body and honoring what it needs.
My hope in sharing this is simple: you’re not alone. Your experience is valid. And healing is possible, even when it feels impossibly far away.
Honestly, Vanessa 