Postpartum Depression: A Black Mother’s Story

Black women can do everything. We’ve been programmed since nursing white babies, tending the house and picking the fields to handle all things thrown our way. The strength of our female ancestors, who bent hell backward and opened doors to freedom, were passed down to us. Their determination, resilience, and tenacity to never break, live in the bosoms of our bellies. And because so, nothing is too hard. We’re good at everything. We don’t give up and we don’t get tired.

As awesome as this may sound, and while we would like this to be true, we know that it’s not.

But somehow, black women have been labeled with this permanent marker that we are invincible. Showing emotion or weakness means we are less than, and reaching out for help and/or advice means we are worthless. We’ve been forced to live up to this invisible aptitude; pink S’s adorn our chest because we are “super” women and never sub-par.

I would like to go on record and publicly admit how untrue this is.

I fell into this mindset of being a Super Woman, and it wasn’t until I became a mother that I realized the level of trauma that comes along with pretending to be okay when you aren’t. Having children changes a woman–and this is

Black women can do everything. We’ve been programmed since nursing white babies, tending the house and picking the fields to handle all things thrown our way. The strength of our female ancestors, who bent hell backward and opened doors to freedom, were passed down to us. Their determination, resilience, and tenacity to never break, live in the bosoms of our bellies. And because so, nothing is too hard. We’re good at everything. We don’t give up and we don’t get tired.

As awesome as this may sound, and while we would like this to be true, we know that it’s not.

But somehow, black women have been labeled with this permanent marker that we are invincible. Showing emotion or weakness means we are less than, and reaching out for help and/or advice means we are worthless. We’ve been forced to live up to this invisible aptitude; pink S’s adorn our chest because we are “super” women and never sub-par.

I would like to go on record and publicly admit how untrue this is.

I fell into this mindset of being a Super Woman, and it wasn’t until I became a mother that I realized the level of trauma that comes along with pretending to be okay when you aren’t. Having children changes a woman–and this is