According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), postpartum depression affects over 11 percent of women in the United States, or 1 in 9 women. However, the condition does not affect all women equally. Factors such as a person’s socioeconomic background, income, or race overwhelmingly impact the likelihood of developing this condition and the likelihood of receiving the proper care and treatment.
Postpartum depression (PPD) is a condition in which a new parent may experience persistent feelings of sadness, emptiness, low energy, anxiety, irritability, poor sleep, or lack of appetite. This is different than just having the “baby blues” that many new parents experience. It can last for months or longer, sometimes becoming an ongoing depressive disorder. Mothers may stop breastfeeding, have problems bonding with and caring for their infants, and be at increased risk of suicide.
Not only are Black mothers at a higher risk of developing postpartum depression, but they’re also disproportionately affected by the condition. Black women are more likely to end up in the hospital for postpartum depression than any other racial or ethnic group.
A dear friend of mine had her first baby a couple of years ago. What was supposed to be beautiful time turned into her crying all day, oftentimes with her not knowing why. The constant feeling of overwhelm was unbearable. She explained to me that she felt no connection to her new baby girl, not even wanting to breastfeed because she didn’t desire the closeness with her.
Her parents had come to stay for a couple of weeks after the baby was born, and her husband took time off as well. She told me that she dreaded her parents leaving, and her husband returning to work. She was alone. One day, she needed to take the baby to a doctor’s appointment. She was so scared to drive. She thought she would have an accident, or the baby would choke when she couldn’t see her. She was afraid to tell anyone.
When she returned to work after maternity leave, she cried in the bathroom every day and even obsessively checked the daycare app to confirm she had dropped the baby off and didn’t leave her in the car.
Being a Black woman, her concern was that medical professionals would think she was a bad mother and take her baby away. She chose to struggle in silence rather than seek care and risk having her family torn apart by child welfare services.
For many Black women, the fear of child welfare services comes from knowing of real incidents in their community. News reports have found that child welfare workers deem Black mothers unfit at a higher rate than they do white mothers.
It took my friend six months after her daughter’s birth to work up the courage to see a doctor about her postpartum depression. Even then, she encountered the typical barriers faced by new mothers: therapy can be expensive and wait times are long, not to mention coordinating time off work, especially for someone struggling with depression. But she was determined. She visited two different doctors until she found a good fit. After several months of therapy and medication, she began feeling better.
Unfortunately, many mothers never receive care. A study from the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia found that only 1 in 10 women who screened positive for postpartum depression sought any kind of treatment in the following months.
There is a stigma in our society towards women, more specifically Black women, battling postpartum depression. It may perceived by others that they don’t love their children, that they didn’t want them to begin with, or that they are dangerous.
When my friend finally told me the journey she had been on since the baby was born, I thought about how the Black community oftentimes sidesteps postpartum. There is this expectation on Black women that we have to be the strong superheroes and not allow ourselves to be vulnerable. So, she kept pushing through, masking her pain and pretending that everything was okay. Yet, internally, it was a whirlwind happening. My friend didn’t want to appear weak or incapable of handling her life.
For many Black women, there is a layer of shame in asking for help. We want to appear that everything is fine but that is what everyone around us expects.
As I watched Season 7 of Love & Marriage Huntsville, it reminded me of what my friend had gone through. Tiffany, after giving birth to baby Ace, is experiencing postpartum depression and desperately trying to give voice to what she was feeling. Being a very successful and in-control Black woman, she finds herself lost and overwhelmed, feeling like she was in a deep hole. Tiffany states that she knew postpartum depression existed but thought it could never happen to her.
It’s critical for the healthcare system to recognize the importance of mothers’ mental health when their new baby is born, including the emotional, psychological, and physical stress that women endure. Unfortunately, these issues often go unaddressed, and, after giving birth, women are sent home with a new little person who needs them when they need support themselves. It’s unacceptable that Black women struggle to find mental health providers or feel fear when they do so. Even if one or two accept their insurance, there is no guarantee that they will click with that person. There have to be options and social support from professionals.
Racism and discrimination complicate this issue further. As a result, Black women often go unheard, from their pain in childbirth to mental health and physical conditions postpartum. More Black birth workers and mental health providers are needed who understand Black women’s unique challenges.
It’s time to prioritize Black maternal mental health, with more resources and support to break down the barriers that prevent Black women from receiving the care they deserve.
To learn more about postpartum depression, and what you can do to help, visit the National Institute for Mental Health.
