Navigating unique paths

Navigating Unique Paths

My Journey with Postnatal Depression and Spiritual Insight

When I reflect on my experience with postnatal depression after my eldest son was born, I realize how unique and deeply personal that journey was. In those early days, despite reaching out for help and being reassured that what I felt was normal, I often found myself feeling isolated and confused. I sensed something was different — that my bond with my son felt more like that of a sibling or a nephew. It was a feeling I struggled to put into words, and one I often kept to myself, wondering if I was just trying to make sense of emotions too big to hold.

As the years passed, that quiet knowing never really faded. I didn’t cling to it or try to force a meaning onto it. I just stayed open, curious — willing to let the truth reveal itself in its own time. And it did.

Nearly two decades later, my son voiced what we had all felt intuitively. He said he always sensed he was meant to be my mother’s child. When he spoke those words, something in me clicked. My mother had felt it too — even before he was born. She once told me she felt an intense longing for a child during that time, a soul she knew but couldn’t place. And when he arrived, it was as if something in her heart recognized him immediately.

It’s taken us many years to piece this together. Not to create a story, but to accept one that already existed beneath the surface.

In sharing this, I don’t claim it as universal truth — only a personal one. I’m not suggesting that every case of postnatal depression is linked to reincarnation or spiritual misalignment. Mental health is deeply complex, and healing looks different for everyone. But I also believe in the value of trusting what we feel. Of listening to the quiet inner voice that says, “This is real, even if no one else sees it yet.”

This is not about replacing support with spiritual explanation — it’s about allowing space for both. My story isn’t proof, but perhaps it’s permission. Permission to trust the whispers. To honour what doesn’t always make sense. To know that sometimes, the answers arrive when we’re ready — and not a moment before.