The Bathroom Closet Became My Safe Space

My bathroom closet became my safe space.

After dark. After dinners. After baths. After everyone else finally settled down. When the house became quiet enough for me to hear myself think, I would slip into the closet and cry.

Sometimes it happened at night after nursing my newborn. Sometimes it happened first thing in the morning before the rest of the house fully woke up. I would sit there surrounded by hanging clothes and baskets, exhausted beyond words, trying to breathe through tears I did not even fully understand.

The house would still be chaotic. Dishes somewhere waiting. Laundry piled up. Kids needing something. A baby attached to me almost constantly. And somehow, in the middle of all of it, I stopped recognizing myself.

Postpartum depression can look different

As a mother of eight, I have experienced postpartum depression in some form after each child. That is something people do not really talk about. There is this assumption that after enough children, you become an expert. Like your body, hormones, emotions, and identity somehow become immune to struggle because you have done it before.

But every pregnancy is different. Every postpartum season is different. And every version of you entering motherhood is different.

What postpartum depression looked like for me

For me, postpartum depression did not always look like what people expect. It was not always dramatic sadness or staying in bed all day. Sometimes it looked like withdrawal. Not wanting to shower. Not wanting to go outside. Declining help. Pulling away from people I loved.

It looked like taking care of everyone else while completely neglecting myself. It looked like overstimulation. Like crying quietly. Like lashing out because everyone touching me, needing me, asking me questions, climbing on me, or wanting closeness suddenly felt unbearable. And then feeling guilty immediately afterward.

When the six-week mark wasn't the finish line

One of the hardest parts was the period after those first six weeks postpartum. Society treats six weeks like a finish line. Like you are supposed to bounce back. Supposed to find your routine again. Supposed to be productive. Supposed to recognize yourself.

But what happens when you still feel lost? What happens when you are moving slowly while the world expects you to speed back up? I remember sitting in that closet with raccoon eyes from crying, trying to think of one positive thing I had done that day. As if keeping a baby alive was not positive enough.

Feeling constant pressure

I never brought my phone into the closet with me. Social media often became another reminder of all the things I was not doing. All the women who looked happier, cleaner, more organized, more rested, more grateful. Meanwhile, I was just trying to make it to bedtime.

I remember thinking often: I chose this life. I am responsible for everyone here. I cannot stop. And that pressure can become suffocating. Especially as mothers. Especially as Black mothers. Especially as mothers with large families.

There is this unspoken expectation that we should be able to handle it all because we have handled hard things before. But postpartum depression does not care how strong you are.

When my struggles affected my family

One of the moments that forced me to confront how deeply I was struggling happened with my older children. They were trying to help me. Trying to give me space. Trying to love me the best way they knew how. And I snapped. I lashed out. I saw the hurt in their eyes immediately. That moment broke something open inside of me because I realized I was trying so hard to protect my children from my pain that I was unintentionally letting my pain spill onto them anyway.

The truth is, I missed them. I missed myself. But I felt trapped between needing isolation and craving support at the same time. That is one of the hardest things about postpartum depression to explain. You want help, but sometimes you are too exhausted to explain what kind of help you need. Even making a list feels overwhelming.

Sometimes you just want someone to see you. To notice you. To say: “I see you. You are doing enough. You do not have to hide the heavy from me.”

Remembering that I deserved care, too

I think often about my father. He passed away while I was pregnant with my second child, but I still remember him gently pushing me to get out of the house one day. He told me, “Baby, there will always be another bill. Go get your hair done. If you look better, you’ll feel better. Even a little.”

At the time, I don't think he realized how deeply I would hold onto those words. Because postpartum depression can make you abandon yourself slowly. And sometimes healing begins with tiny reminders that you are still a person deserving of care too.

Not just a mother. Not just a caregiver. Not just the one holding everything together. You.

Making space for myself in motherhood

Today, I am pregnant with my ninth child. And if there is one thing I have learned, it is this: You do not have to earn rest. You do not have to earn softness. And you do not have to completely lose yourself to love your children well.

Some days survival is enough. Some days feeding the baby, drinking water, and standing outside in the sunlight are victories. Some days motherhood feels beautiful. Some days it feels impossibly heavy. Both things can be true at the same time.

And if you are hiding in your own version of a bathroom closet right now, trying to pull yourself together before someone calls your name again, I hope you know this: You are not failing. You are not weak. And you are not alone.