When motherhood feels different
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When I found out I was pregnant, the world didn’t stop spinning, but mine tilted slightly. I was excited, more than anything. But I was also overwhelmed in a way I couldn’t quite explain.
At the time, I didn’t know I was neurodivergent. I just thought I was struggling more than other people I knew, and more than I was supposed to. I hold so much tenderness for the woman who stumbled through the trenches, not yet knowing why it felt so hard.
The way I processed information, how deeply I felt things, the constant masking. There were signs all along, but no one had ever helped me recognise them.
I’d always embraced being different, wearing it almost like a badge of honour. But that confidence faded as I struggled to meet the unspoken expectations around pregnancy, birth, and early motherhood.
Most people don’t think about sensory overload in a labour ward, but I did. The lights, the cold, the beeping machines, strangers touching me without warning; it was all too much. No one asked if I had sensory needs or if the environment was manageable, they had never been taught how. So, I stayed quiet, masked the panic, smiled politely and waited to be somewhere I could breathe.
Trying to communicate what I needed felt almost impossible. I couldn’t find the words. I was often labelled as anxious or overly sensitive, but I knew deep down that wasn’t it. I just didn’t have the right tools, and no one knew to offer them.
After my baby arrived, the challenges didn’t ease. They simply changed. My senses heightened managing on little sleep, multitasking constantly, and I thought that because I didn’t feel at ease with my bub instantly, that I didn’t know how to bond and nurture with my newborn. I was so in love with my son, yet I felt so lost in the chaos. The crying, the lack of routine, the constant demands—it drained me in ways I couldn’t explain.
I experienced postnatal anxiety, although I didn’t recognise it at the time or until years later. In truth, I was navigating early motherhood in a system that wasn’t designed for someone like me.
Over time, I began to notice patterns in myself. I started researching and lending an ear to parents who felt the same. Slowly, I began to understand that I might be neurodivergent and with that diagnosis came relief.
Since then, I’ve created ways to support myself and my beautiful children. I set constant reminders, build simple routines, and take breaks when I can see burn out in the horizon.
By letting go of comparison, honouring what feels right for our own journey, and meeting ourselves with compassion, we free ourselves from the weight of expectation. And on that quieter, more authentic path, postnatal depression and anxiety have much less space to grow.
Becoming a mother and receiving a diagnosis didn’t mean becoming someone else. It meant learning how to show up as myself authentically despite what that might look like to someone else, and trusting that my way is valid too.
If you or someone you know is experiencing perinatal wellbeing challenges visit: Perinatal Wellbeing Centre
