A Survivor’s Story: My Journey Through Postpartum Psychosis

It was Friday of Memorial Day weekend, and I was planning to spend the weekend with my two children, parents, and sister at the beach—without my husband, who had to work. But something held me back. I found myself stuck on the front porch of our townhome, unable to get up and go.

My thoughts were racing, and though I couldn’t explain it, I felt paralyzed. I called my best friend, and while I made sense in conversation, my ideas were so grandiose that it concerned her. I then called my boss and apparently quit my job—though I don’t recall that conversation at all.

My husband later told me I sat down and quoted scripture he didn’t even know I had memorized. He stepped outside for just a moment.

A Sudden Spiral and Emergency Help

In that moment, I truly believed Jesus was returning. I grabbed our kids and begged, “Please save us, our family, and our friends!” over and over. When my husband came back inside, he found me pale and weak, clutching our children.

I passed out in his arms. He immediately called 911.

As I regained consciousness, my nursing brain kicked in, but inappropriately. I told the paramedics to start chest compressions and intubate me—I was sure I was dying. But the truth was, I was mentally sick.

I spent two nights in the ER before being transferred to the psychiatric unit. I was 30 years old, a mom of two, with no history of mental illness. So how did I end up there?

The Diagnosis: Postpartum Psychosis

This is where my memory fades, but the diagnosis was clear: Postpartum Psychosis.

On the psychiatric unit, I was assigned a sitter 24/7 to ensure I didn’t harm myself or anyone else. I stayed there nearly two weeks—two long weeks without my babies. I couldn’t go outside or even eat in a common area. My sister later told me I thought I was Tina Turner at one point—and even pregnant with Baby Jesus at another.

I do remember thinking I was on the set of Grey’s Anatomy with Bradley Cooper and Mandisa. Sounds like a dream, but it was anything but. It was terrifying.

A Mind at War: Paranoia and Hallucinations

My anxiety and paranoia peaked. I blamed my husband and family for things that weren’t true. I trusted my husband deeply in real life, but in that state, I couldn’t.

I drew family trees obsessively. I was convinced I was in hell, and my only mission was to get out. My memory began returning near the end of my hospital stay. It didn’t switch on all at once—it slowly improved, especially after returning home to my “safe space.”

Coming Home, But Not Back to Normal

Coming home wasn’t the relief I hoped for. I wasn’t allowed to be alone with my children or by myself. I couldn’t drive or go back to work.

I didn’t even remember being in the hospital for two weeks. I was weak, paranoid, and felt tortured by restrictions I didn’t understand. I even tried to jump out of my husband’s truck during a moment of intense distress.

The Road to Recovery Begins

But I made it through that day—and many more.

As part of my recovery, I attended an intensive outpatient program: three hours of group therapy every day. Still disconnected from reality, I believed everyone in the room was a family member. It was uncomfortable and confusing.

After “graduating,” I began seeing both a psychologist and psychiatrist. My husband had to hand me my medications and watch me take them—despite me being a nurse. That was humbling, but necessary.

Regaining Independence Step by Step

Slowly, the restrictions were lifted. First, I was allowed to drive—but not with the kids. I remember that first solo trip to Target, Chai Tea Latte in hand. Freedom!

Eventually, I was allowed to care for both kids and drive with them. My psychiatrist was impressed with how quickly I resumed mothering, but the anxiety lingered.

I applaud stay-at-home moms—it’s a full-time job. My kids went to daycare three days a week, and I kept them the other two. Even now, I sometimes need extra support. Moms, it’s OK to ask for help—we’re not meant to do it all alone.

Faith, Family, and a New Mission

How did I survive this?

My faith. My family. The prayers of many. God’s grace surrounded us, and my loved ones carried me when I couldn’t stand on my own. My husband, especially, was my rock. So were my doctors, medications, and ongoing therapy.

One day, my psychiatrist told me it was like I had returned from battle. That resonated deeply. I am a fighter and a warrior over postpartum psychosis.

Raising Awareness and Offering Hope

I feel incredibly grateful that I never had harmful thoughts toward my children. I now have a God-given passion to tell my story and raise awareness about Perinatal Mood Disorders, including Postpartum Depression, Postpartum Anxiety, Postpartum OCD, and Postpartum Psychosis.

My mission is to let women know: you are not alone.

I used to fear what people would think about me being on medication. I thought it made me “less together” as a mom. That stigma kept me from asking for help. But now? I’ll tell the world—I’m on medication, and it’s for my health and my family’s well-being.

Postpartum Depression affects 1 in 7 women. Postpartum Psychosis is much rarer, about 1 in 1,000. My doctor hadn’t seen a case in over six years.

Join Me in Shining a Light

I’m proud to be a Warrior Mom Ambassador with Postpartum Progress, a nonprofit raising awareness and offering peer support to moms facing maternal mental illness.

You can find more of my story and resources on my Facebook page:
Into the light: Thriving after Postpartum Psychosis, PPD/PPA

I’m also open to sharing my journey in person with appropriate groups—just reach out.

By Guest Blogger Kristina Dulaney

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