01/07/2026
Postpartum isn’t a mental health crisis. It’s a care crisis.
And society has made it almost impossible to survive honestly.
We tell mothers to heal, but demand they perform.
You’re still bleeding.
Still wearing a diaper.
Still shaking from the hormone drop that hits harder than anything you’ve ever felt and somehow you’re expected to be
camera-ready within 48 hours.
Professional newborn photos.
Professional family photos.
A perfectly curated going-home outfit, not for comfort, but for proof.
Proof that you’re glowing.
Proof that you’re okay.
Proof that you did this “right.”
The nursery used to be a quiet space, a functional room filled with borrowed things, hand-me-downs, places to set the baby down while someone else cooked dinner.
Now it’s a backdrop.
A reveal.
A post.
Every detail styled.
Every corner curated.
Every inch saying, Look how prepared I am.
Meanwhile, the mother hasn’t slept in days.
She’s Googling things at 3 a.m. with one hand while holding a crying baby with the other.
She’s wondering why no one warned her it would feel like this.
She’s questioning herself, not because she’s failing, but because she’s alone.
And social media makes it worse.
We’ve taught mothers to hide their hard and post their smiles.
To share ease instead of truth.
To filter exhaustion into beauty.
To post another perfect picture so no one suspects she’s unraveling.
Because struggling feels dangerous.
What if they think I’m a bad mom?
What if they think I can’t handle this?
What if I admit I’m not okay and no one shows up anyway?
So she posts again.
And again.
And again.
A mother can be falling apart in silence, while everyone assumes she’s surrounded by support because her photos look so peaceful.
This isn’t weakness.
This is pressure.
Pressure to look grateful.
Pressure to look capable.
Pressure to look happy while being profoundly under-cared for.
She needed a village.
And instead, she got expectations.
You cannot say “we don’t have villages anymore” while staying comfortable and distant.
A village isn’t a comment on a photo.
It’s a knock on the door.
It’s bringing food without asking.
It’s folding laundry without needing permission.
It’s holding the baby so she can sleep or shower, not so she can host you.
It’s checking in after the posts stop getting likes.
It’s staying when it’s quiet and unglamorous and real.
Be the neighbor who notices.
Be the friend who shows up even when she says, “I’m fine.”
Be the sister who knows that “fine” often means please don’t forget me.
Because one day, you may be the mother in the diaper, forcing a smile for the camera, hoping someone sees past the picture and comes anyway.
Postpartum doesn’t need better branding.
It doesn’t need prettier nurseries.
It doesn’t need another perfect photo.
It needs care.
It needs truth.
It needs people willing to be the village, not just wish for one.
