“No,” I answer to my kallah teacher, to my therapist, to my husband, when they ask me if I think I might be suffering from postpartum depression.

But after too many sleepless nights, too many bouts of tears, and eliciting a promise from my husband that he would make sure no one would take my baby away, I go see my doctor.

I walk out with a box of pills, a squashed ego, and huge amounts of both pure relief and utter dejection. Relief because there is hope, and utter dejection because, really? Do I really need this in order to function? I mean, me? Really? Is there something wrong with me? Am I built differently from all the thousands of women who give birth and just bounce right back into things within days? Maybe I just need more time. More help. More support. Gosh, more sleep. A different therapist. But I remind myself of the research I’ve done, the professionals I’ve spoken to. Maybe other less invasive, and more timely and financially consuming options could work, but at this point I’m desperate. I need relief now.

I take the first pill.

I don’t sleep all that night. Or the next. Or the one after.

I cry and cry and cry because I can’t fall asleep and the baby is going to wake up and scream and what should I do with her, and it’s Chol Hamoed, so I have to get up, dress myself and the baby, go out, smile at the world, serve one meal and another and another, and clear up after each one, and I just can’t anymore.

The fourth night I sleep like a baby.

Day five on pills is Hoshana Rabbah, a Sunday. I was up too late last night, another Motzaei Shabbos cooking marathon, but this time I wasn’t crying, onions or otherwise.

I’m standing between the fridge and the garbage can, baby in my arm (where else?) when the fresh scent of baby shampoo hits me, and a feeling bubbles up from in me — this smell is heaven. I look down and see a fresh garbage bag — my husband must’ve taken out the garbage — and then mindlessly open up the fridge. I spot a seven-layer something, and again, a bubble of something strange and fresh surges within. Wow, I have a husband and he’s taking care of me. And then I realize what this feeling is. It’s happiness. Real, inner joy, that comes from deep inside. The kind I haven’t felt in months. Does this mean I’m getting better?

I want to jump and dance, and tell the world about my newfound positivity, but instead I just mention it quietly to my husband. I keep things understated — “Look, maybe it’s just random. You know, you being an extra good husband, and going to the furthest bakery because you know I like their cake, that’s making me feel happy.” Really, I’m just so fearful of rejoicing prematurely.

ItÕs Simchas Torah, and I’m in shul for hakafos, the compliments raining down on both myself and the baby like into poorly assembled sechach on the first night of Succos. “You look amaaaaaaaazing, she looks like such a placid baby! Heaven! Love love love what she’s wearing — you must be getting nights, if you could pull together such an ensemble.” Looks can be deceiving, honey.

I squeeze through the gaggle in black to the mechitzah, and search the sea of men (also in black) for my husband. Finally, I spot him: his forehead creased in concentration, eyes tightly shut, fists punching the air, rejoicing that this is his life, his days and nights, his occupation.

And finally, I, too, can rejoice.

For my life. For my days and nights. For my occupation.

Eim habanim semeichah, halleluKah!

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 915)