This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Ayana Lage, author of “Missing Me: A Memoir of Postpartum Psychosis and the Long Road Back.” It has been edited for length and clarity.
A little more than a week after giving birth to my daughter, I sat up in bed. “God is talking to me,” I told my husband. I was a prophet and our daughter — who I increasingly thought of as just my daughter—was Jesus.
I was so annoyed that my husband didn’t understand the importance of the moment. I was trying to tell him I was a prophet, and he just looked terrified.
I turned to my parents. They are more religious than me, and I thought they would understand. But they looked even more terrified than my husband had. It was frustrating. I was elated, but no one believed me.
I had prepared for postpartum depression, but not psychosis
I was diagnosed with major depression and an anxiety disorder in college. At first, I was hesitant to take medications, but over time, I accepted life with a mental illness. I even became an advocate, writing about my experience.
I knew I was at an increased risk for postpartum depression because of my conditions. I spoke with my psychiatrist and stayed on medications throughout my pregnancy. I was prepared, but also knew that if I experienced a depressive episode, I would be OK. I had been through that before, and I could do it again.
Psychosis didn’t even cross my mind.
I felt elated immediately after birth
My daughter was born a month early, via emergency C-section, in the middle of the pandemic. Despite all that, I was elated after birth. I was so energetic and felt things were exactly how they should be. I was in a really, really good place — or so I thought.
Looking back, there were warning signs. I wasn’t sleeping. I was on social media constantly, posting erratically. I got into an argument with my grandma.
Within days, I crashed. I would go from euphoria to crying in the fetal position. I didn’t want my husband or mother around the baby — I thought I was the only one she was safe with.
My husband reached out to my psychiatrist, who told him that if I got worse, I may need to go to the hospital. He decided I shouldn’t be alone with the baby, so he or my mom were always there. Deep down, I started to feel unsettled.
I got to the hospital just in time
The day I declared I was a prophet, my husband began talking about going to the hospital. I didn’t want to leave my baby. But then I had a sudden switch: I told him I needed to go to the hospital immediately, or I would die.
Almost as soon as I got to the emergency room, I started having visual hallucinations. The doctors and nurses were strange and cartoonish. Looking back, I think my brain found a way to protect me by asking for help, just before things got very bad.
I was transferred to the psych ward, where I stayed for 17 days. When my husband picked me up, I rode home in the backseat with our daughter. I was heavily medicated, but I remember thinking that maybe I could still have a normal life. I was a mother with her baby — how it should be.
Postpartum psychosis was scary and humbling
At first, I thought I would never have another child. And yet, after being in recovery and working with my medical team, I had my son four years later. My psychiatrist and high-risk OB oversaw my whole pregnancy and checked on me in the hospital postpartum. My family watched me for any signs that something was off.
I experienced some postpartum anxiety with my son, but it was nothing compared to what happened with my first. I remember feeding him a bottle, so grateful I could share those mundane moments with him.
I’m incredibly grateful for the people around me and the care I received. My husband — a white man — was a strong advocate for me throughout. As a Black woman, I may not have had access to the same quality of care without that.
Too often, moms with postpartum psychosis are vilified. Before it happened to me, I would have assumed there was some way to bring myself back to reality or maintain some control. It was very scary and humbling to experience being entirely disconnected from reality, with no way to bring myself back.
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