When Noah was born, motherhood felt surprisingly natural.

Looking back through old Instagram stories recently, I found myself smiling.

There we were.

Long days together.

Tiny cuddles.

Breastfeeding.

Contact naps.

Quiet moments where it felt like the rest of the world had disappeared.

I looked happy.

But more importantly, I remember feeling happy.

I was completely present.

Becoming Noah’s mum wasn’t something I had to force. It felt instinctive. I loved caring for him. I loved learning him. I loved simply being together.

Those first few months are some of the most beautiful memories of my life.

Then everything changed.

Around three months postpartum, postpartum depression and anxiety arrived with a force I never could have imagined.

The joy that had felt so effortless became buried beneath fear.

Every day became something to survive rather than something to experience.

Although the hardest months lasted around three or four months, my recovery was much longer than that.

It took close to nine months before I truly felt like myself again.

Nine months.

When I say it out loud, it almost takes my breath away.

Because nine months is such a significant portion of a baby’s first year.

A year that everyone tells you goes by in the blink of an eye.

And sometimes I feel like I missed so much of it.

Not because I wasn’t there.

I was.

Every single day.

I fed Noah.

Held him.

Played with him.

Comforted him.

Loved him.

I smiled at him.

I cared for him with everything I had.

I know, deep in my heart, that I was a good mother.

But I wasn’t fully there as me.

It felt as though only half of me was present.

The other half was desperately trying to keep her head above water.

Trying to quiet the relentless anxiety.

Trying to convince herself that tomorrow would feel easier.

Trying to remember who she used to be.

When I look back now, I don’t feel guilt.

I feel grief.

Grief for the version of myself who couldn’t fully soak in those moments.

Grief that so much energy went into surviving instead of simply living.

Grief that while Noah was growing so quickly, I was fighting every single day just to get through until bedtime.

Sometimes I wonder what those months would have felt like if postpartum depression and anxiety had never entered our story.

Would I remember more?

Would I have laughed more?

Would I have felt lighter?

I’ll never know.

But I’ve realised something important.

Even though those months feel stolen from me, they weren’t stolen from Noah.

He still had a mother who showed up.

A mother who loved him fiercely.

A mother who held him, comforted him, protected him and kept choosing him every single day—even while carrying an invisible battle no one else could fully see.

That thought brings me enormous comfort.

Because babies don’t need perfect mothers.

They need mothers who keep coming back.

Who love them.

Who respond to them.

Who hold them close.

And despite everything postpartum depression and anxiety took from me, they never took away my love for Noah.

If you’re reading this while walking through postpartum depression or anxiety yourself, I want you to know something.

It’s okay to grieve the memories you feel you’ve lost.

It’s okay to feel angry that this wasn’t the beginning you imagined.

It’s okay to mourn the months that illness overshadowed.

But please don’t confuse your suffering with your worth as a mother.

They are not the same thing.

One day, perhaps sooner than you think, you’ll realise you’ve slowly found your way back to yourself.

Not the exact woman you were before.

Someone softer.

Stronger.

More compassionate.

Someone who knows what it means to keep loving, even when simply surviving feels impossibly hard.

I can’t get those nine months back.

I wish I could.

But I also know this.

The love between Noah and me never disappeared.

It carried us through.

And today, when he reaches for my hand, wraps his little arms around my neck, or looks up at me with complete trust, I’m reminded that love has a remarkable way of surviving even the hardest seasons.

Perhaps that’s what motherhood has taught me most.

Sometimes love is loud and joyful.

Sometimes it’s quiet endurance.

But both are love.

And both count.