Coping With Depression as a New Mum: Finding Acceptance After a Baby’s Diagnosis
“I thought I was alone—until I realised so many mothers walk this path too.”
Receiving the Diagnosis
Becoming a mother was the most exhilarating and terrifying chapter of my life. My baby was born via Caesarean section and was taken to the NICU immediately. We had been told beforehand that something was wrong. From the moment I held my son in the NICU, I sensed that our story would unfold differently from other new mums. When I first brought my baby home from the NICU after a month, I aimed to continue as normally as possible. I attended postnatal clinics, talked with health visitors, and did all the things new mothers usually do.
But life had already changed.
Three months after giving birth, my husband and I sat in a small consultation room at Evelina Children’s Hospital, London. There, we learned the truth: our son had Osteogenesis Imperfecta (OI), also called Brittle Bone Disease.
OI is a rare genetic condition caused by a mutation in a gene that affects the production of collagen. It results in bones that are fragile and prone to fractures, sometimes even without injury. My little boy—our glass baby—was delicate in ways I had never anticipated.
From that moment, life became filled with hospital appointments, X-rays, specialists, physiotherapists, occupational therapists, and nurses. Every appointment reminded me that my baby required extra care, that his tiny bones were more delicate than glass.
At home, we supported him with pillows. We played music constantly to calm his crying because I didn’t realise he was often in pain. I felt worlds apart from other new mums. While they playfully rocked and tossed their babies, I held back—fearful, cautious, and silently grieving. The isolation crept in fast. I questioned why this was happening to us and wondered if any other family truly understood the weight of Brittle Bone disease.
When Depression Creeps In
The moment you learn your baby has a disability, your heart breaks too. For me, the initial reaction was denial. Surely, the doctors had made a mistake. Then came anger and guilt:
• Was it something I ate?
• Was it because I didn’t take the pregnancy supplements properly?
• Could I have prevented this?
The guilt was relentless, even though the doctors assured us this was a random genetic mutation, not something I caused. And guilt often fuels depression.
The NHS reports that 1 in 10 women experience postnatal depression in the UK. Add a rare diagnosis to the mix, and the emotional weight becomes even heavier. Some days, I felt numb. Other days, I cried quietly while my baby slept. There were moments when I wanted to retreat from the world.
Grieving the Baby I Imagined
I had to grieve, even though my baby was alive. I mourned the carefree motherhood I had imagined:
• walks in the park without the fear of fractures
• playgroups where I could join in without hesitation
• carrying my baby without pillows.
Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s five stages of grief —Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance —fit perfectly with my journey. I moved back and forth between them. But gradually, something changed. I started to see my son not through the diagnosis, but with love. He was mine, perfect in his own way.
You Are Not Alone
At first, I believed I was the only one. With no family history of disability, everything felt foreign. Then we attended our first hydrotherapy pool session. There, I saw other parents with children who had cerebral palsy, Down syndrome, and other conditions. For the first time, I realised:
Isolation was an illusion.
As I watched their babies drift by, sometimes giggling, sometimes silent, I saw echoes of my own fears and hopes. On the drive home, my husband and I fell into silence—no longer feeling alone, but connected to a community united by everyday struggles.
Globally, UNICEF estimates 240 million children live with disabilities. In the UK, of the 14.6 million disabled people, 9% are children (Scope, 2023).
The numbers reminded me: I wasn’t walking this road alone.
How I Managed Depression
Acceptance didn’t come quickly. It was a slow, winding path. Here are some of the things that helped me:
1. Allowing Myself to Grieve
I stopped resisting the sadness. Grief isn’t a sign of weakness; it’s an essential part of the healing process.
2. Seeking Professional Support
Postnatal and clinical depression are treatable. Talk with a GP about your mental health. Support may include therapy, medication, and perinatal mental health services. · NHS Perinatal Mental Health Services · Mind · Tommy’s
3. Finding My Tribe
Meeting other parents of children with disabilities transformed my life. Sharing stories promotes connection and hope. Organisations like the Brittle Bone Society are excellent places to start. There are also support groups online.
4. Challenging the Guilt
I reminded myself daily: This is not my fault. Faith and affirmations helped me replace guilt with self-compassion.
5. Practising Small Acts of Self-Care
Music, journaling, short walks, and rest—even in small amounts—kept me afloat. Self-care isn’t selfish; it fuels resilience.
6. Leaning on Faith
For me, prayer and scripture were anchors. For others, mindfulness or meditation can offer the same grounding.
Acceptance Is Not the End
Acceptance doesn’t mean everything becomes instantly fine. There are still tough days and worries about the future. However, acceptance allows me to live in the present. It empowers me to celebrate small victories; his smile, his laughter, those moments of calm. Depression might visit, but it doesn’t have to stay forever.
Final Words to Other Mums
If you’re a new mum facing a diagnosis, please hear me:
– You are not failing.
– You are not alone.
– Your feelings are valid.
Allow yourself to grieve if necessary and seek support when you’re feeling down. Surround yourself with understanding people. Remember, acceptance isn’t surrender; it’s choosing to live with hope. My experience with my “glass baby” has been unexpected, but it’s taught me resilience, empathy, and a profound form of love.
Acceptance hasn’t removed the pain but has reshaped it into something more manageable and, in its own way, beautiful.
