10/01/2026
Some babies cried even when held.
Some mothers felt nothing — and hated themselves for it.
They did everything they were told.
They fed on schedule. Rocked patiently. Held their babies close, skin to skin, heart to heart. And still, something didn’t happen. The baby arched away. The crying didn’t stop. The expected rush of love never arrived.
Instead, there was numbness. Or dread. Or a hollow exhaustion that felt incompatible with motherhood itself.
And because no one had language for this, women turned inward.
What kind of mother doesn’t feel bonded?
What kind of woman feels detached from her own baby?
The answers society offered were brutal.
You must be cold.
You must not want this enough.
You must be broken.
For decades, motherhood was framed as instinctive and automatic. If bonding didn’t occur, the fault was assumed to be moral. A failure of love. A failure of character. Women carried that shame silently, often while caring for infants whose needs felt endless and impossible to meet.
This is the silence Selma Fraiberg broke.
Fraiberg didn’t start with judgment.
She started with observation.
Working with infants and families living in poverty, trauma, and psychological distress, she noticed something that contradicted dominant beliefs. These mothers were not indifferent. They were overwhelmed. Depressed. Haunted by their own histories. And their babies were responding not to lack of love, but to environments saturated with stress.
The problem wasn’t defective mothers.
It was invisible injury.
Fraiberg founded the field of infant mental health by proving that early bonding is shaped by context—by trauma, by deprivation, by maternal depression, by unresolved loss. Babies could cry inconsolably even when held because their nervous systems were dysregulated. Mothers could feel numb because depression and trauma blunt emotional access.
None of this was a moral failure.
It was a human one.
She introduced a radical idea for her time: that babies have emotional lives, and that those lives are affected by the mental health of their caregivers. And just as radically, that mothers need support—not scrutiny—when bonding doesn’t come easily.
Fraiberg’s work reframed postpartum struggle entirely.
Instead of asking, What’s wrong with this mother?
She asked, What has this family lived through?
She showed that when mothers received help—when depression was treated, when trauma was acknowledged, when support entered the home—bonding often followed. Not magically. Not instantly. But genuinely.
Love wasn’t missing.
It was blocked.
This changed everything.
It meant a mother could struggle and still be a good mother.
It meant a crying baby wasn’t rejecting her.
It meant pain had a cause—and causes can be addressed.
For women, this recognition is seismic.
Because so many carried private terror after birth. The fear that they were doing something unforgivable by not feeling what they were “supposed” to feel. The fear that admitting numbness would invite condemnation or intervention.
They smiled instead.
They performed gratitude.
They stayed silent.
Fraiberg gave them permission to speak.
She named postpartum depression, trauma, and stress as forces that interfere with bonding—without turning mothers into villains. She replaced blame with compassion and isolation with care.
Her work said something women had needed to hear for generations.
You are not failing because this is hard.
You are not unloving because you are struggling.
And your baby is not broken because they cry.
Bonding is not a switch.
It is a process.
And processes can be supported.
Today, infant mental health is a recognized field. Home-visiting programs exist. Postpartum mood disorders are screened for—imperfectly, but openly. That progress rests on foundations Fraiberg built when mothers were still being judged in silence.
For women who struggled after birth without language or help, her legacy is quietly profound.
What you felt was real.
What you needed was support.
And love does not disappear just because it arrives late.
Sometimes the most healing thing medicine can do is stop asking mothers to be better — and start helping them be okay.
Selma Fraiberg understood that.
And because she did, millions of women learned they were not alone.