'One year after having a baby, my doctor said four words that floored me.'

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"She's so negative."

It's what I'd silently think when another Facebook post popped up celebrating a child's first birthday. Whether it was a school friend, someone I met while travelling, or an old colleague, the message was always some version of the same thing: It's been the hardest thing I've ever done, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

As an outsider looking in, it felt like they had nothing good to say. I'd wish I could reach through the screen, grab their shoulders and shake them. Just enjoy it!

I cringe writing this now. The truth is, I judged them. So hard. And I honestly had no idea.

I'd always wanted a family. When we fell pregnant after a complicated two-and-a-half year fertility journey, we were over the moon. My pregnancy was blissfully uneventful. In fact, being pregnant was the happiest I'd ever been.

I was bingeing aesthetic 'Day In The Life' videos from influencers who had found their true calling in motherhood. I'd think back to those Facebook posts and wonder, Is it really going to be that hard?!

I didn't want to be like them. I swore my experience would be different.

Fast-forward to today, and I've essentially created a side hustle based around my complaints on motherhood. Whoops. Because as it turns out, yes, it is that hard. In fact, it's harder.

So, where did it all go wrong?

Watch: We've got everything you need to know about Postnatal Depression. Post continues below.

My baby was born after a positive birth experience (thank you, epidural). I felt we'd dodged a bullet, knowing birth trauma can increase the risk of postpartum depression (PPD). I remember the moment he was placed on my chest with perfect clarity. I felt intense, surging love.

For the next few days, I felt that elusive feeling all first-time mothers crave — an overwhelming surge of love and purpose. I felt like I knew what I was doing. Nurses during the changeover would introduce me as, "a first-time mum, but you wouldn't know it — she's so calm!"

It was a compliment I never knew I needed. My motherhood journey was off to a perfect start.

'One of the worst nights of my life.'

And then we went home.

Our first night at home was, to this day, one of the worst nights of my life.

Even with my baby in my arms, my husband by my side, and my parents staying with us, I felt utterly alone without the nurses nearby. A panicky feeling set in and made itself at home for the next few weeks.

I spent those early days feeling what I now know were the baby blues. I cried almost constantly, even more than my newborn. I was swamped by constant, terrible, overwhelming dread.

And through it all, my phone buzzed with lovely messages:

"Enjoy the newborn bubble!"

"Soak up all those cuddles!"

"It goes so fast! Enjoy every moment!"

All I could think was, I am not enjoying this. Not one bit. What's wrong with me?

I started to question everything. Why did we think this was a good idea? Why did I think I'd be a good mum?

Luckily, a few weeks later, a dark cloud lifted. I stopped crying (or at least stopped sobbing constantly) and felt happiness creep back into the cracks where dread used to live.

'A unique kind of torture.'

The next six months were a blur of caring for a colicky baby with terrible reflux. My little boy cried most of the time when he was awake, unless he was in my arms being vigorously rocked.

My husband had returned to work after two weeks, and I was alone, all day every day, with a screaming infant.

It is a unique kind of torture. That cry is biologically designed to elicit a stress response. The result is a frazzled nervous system and a body that feels like it's shutting down.

I was monitored constantly. At every doctor's visit, my son's unsettled nature flagged me for PPD screening. I regularly filled out the questionnaires on how I was coping.

I was fine.

At four months postpartum, a bushfire surrounded our house. It was a hazard reduction that got out of hand and headed straight towards our home at terrifying speed. At midnight, we looked outside our living room windows and our entire house was surrounded by flames.

I will never forget the sound of the fire roaring all around us while I had my baby in my arms. This, combined with a terrible sleep regression where we were up every 45 minutes, meant a week later I was admitted to Tresillian. I spent a week surrounded by nurses and doctors. I had multiple consults with a psychologist. The outcome was the same: my situation was extremely challenging, but I was hanging in there. I was tired, but I was fine.

I returned to work at seven months postpartum, kicking and screaming. Living in Sydney with a mortgage meant I couldn't afford to take more time off. Juggling work with an exclusively breastfed baby was a tornado of emotion, with guilt at its pinnacle. It wasn't easy, but we made it work. I was stressed, but I was fine.

We made it to 12 months. I had survived my first year of motherhood. My son was now a happy, playful child who lit up my days.

But I was slowly breaking. The cracks were showing. I had spent 12 months putting everyone's needs before my own. 12 months of not doing a single thing for myself. I hadn't drowned, but I hardly had the energy to even swim anymore.

I was constantly tearful. I had no energy. Basic tasks felt monumental. Yet, because I still found joy in my child and could care for him, I assumed I was "okay." But I knew I couldn't keep going like this.

The four words that shocked me.

I made a doctor's appointment and I sat with the GP and sobbed through the same questions I'd answered with dry eyes many times before. Then she said the words that completely shocked me: "You are severely depressed."

I couldn't believe it. Because I had always been "fine."

I'd always thought PPD meant you didn't bond with your child or were unfit to care for them. But now I know it looks different for everyone. For me, it looked like constant crying, irritability, crippling fatigue, self-criticism, and an inability to make simple decisions.

Looking back, it's a shock that I was so shocked. The signs were there all along.

Since my diagnosis, my life has changed considerably. Even from that first conversation with the GP, I felt lighter. Talking about what I had been going through in a non-judgemental space was so validating. 

I began taking antidepressants, which stabilised my mood. I now see a psychologist regularly to untangle the complex emotions of modern motherhood. I've finally started to exercise too.

Listen: In this episode, clinical psychologist Dr. Anastasia Hronis breaks down why we get stuck in ruts — and how to tell whether it's just a temporary slump or something deeper like anxiety or depression. Post continues below.

But the biggest change? I talk about it. All the time. To everyone. When someone asks how I am, I tell them. When someone wonders what motherhood is really like, I share the raw, unvarnished truth.

I've become one of those women I used to judge. But I get it now.

I understand that motherhood is my single greatest achievement. Nothing brings me more joy than my child. But motherhood is hard. It breaks you down, again and again.

It isn't just a dismantling; it's a forge. In the fire of sleepless nights and selfless love, your strength, your patience, your ferocity are tempered. A more powerful version of you emerges.

But even though she is stronger, she is not unbreakable. She needs to be looked after, too.

As my psychologist regularly reminds me, "You're finding it hard because it is hard." These words stop me in my tracks every single time I hear them. They are so simple, but so powerful.

So if you're a mum, go ahead and complain. We need to talk about what we're going through. It should be normal to struggle, but it shouldn't be normal to struggle in silence.

Feature Image: Supplied.