I Almost Lost Myself: A Real Nigerian Mum’s Story of Postpartum Depression During COVID

A note before you read: This story was shared by a real Nigerian mother who lived through postpartum depression during the COVID lockdown. We have changed her name and a few details to protect her privacy. She is now called Happiness. This piece includes honest descriptions of emotional breakdown, intrusive thoughts, and depression. If you are in a vulnerable place, please read with care. Helplines and resources are at the bottom of this page.

Postpartum depression affects roughly 1 in 5 new mothers in Nigeria, yet it remains one of the most unspoken struggles in our communities. Happiness agreed to share her story because she remembers searching the internet at 3am, holding her baby, wondering if any other mother had felt this way.

She wants to be the answer she never found.

Who I was before

I want to start by saying my son is the best thing that ever happened to me. I also want to say that for the first six months of his life, I did not recognise the woman I had become.

Before I became a mother, I was a lot of things. A marketing executive in Lagos. Someone who loved owambe parties and would dance until my feet hurt. The person in my friend group who always had a plan, always had energy, always showed up. My colleagues called me Happiness the machine. I wore that name like a badge.

I was also someone who had quietly struggled with anxiety for years, but in Nigeria, we do not really call it that. You just say you are a worrier. You manage it. You keep moving.

My husband David is a good man. Patient, calm, the kind of person who brings down your temperature just by walking into a room. We had been trying for a baby for fourteen months when I finally got pregnant. Every period that came felt like a small failure. I did not tell anyone how much it hurt.

So when the test showed positive, I cried in the bathroom for twenty minutes. Happy tears. Grateful tears. I remember thinking, everything is going to be beautiful now.

The pregnancy and birth

The first trimester was difficult. Vomiting from morning to night, losing weight, dragging myself to work. By the second trimester, I felt better and threw myself into preparing. I painted the nursery. I made a spreadsheet for hospital bags. I was ready.

But something was quietly building. A low, humming anxiety different from my usual worrying. I would lie awake imagining things going wrong. I put it down to being a first time mother and did not mention it at any antenatal appointment, because nobody asked.

My son James was born in March 2020.

You will remember what was happening in March 2020.

Lagos went into lockdown when he was eleven days old. David and I came home with our baby and it was just the three of us. No family allowed in. No mother coming to do omugwo.

For those who do not know, omugwo is the Igbo tradition of a mother or mother in law coming to care for the new mum in those early weeks. Someone cooking soup and saying, rest, I have the baby. Someone who has done this before telling you that you are doing fine.

My mother was in Enugu. My mother in law was in Owerri. WhatsApp video calls are not the same as hands.

The unraveling

It started like tiredness. But this was different. A tiredness that went past sleep. I could sleep for four hours, wake up, and feel like I had not slept at all. There was a heaviness in my chest that did not go away.

I stopped eating. I lost the pregnancy weight quickly, and people kept saying wow, you look so good, and I wanted to scream at them.

I would be breastfeeding James in the night and start crying without knowing why. During the day I was functional. Feeds, nappies, tasks. But inside I was somewhere very far away.

The intrusive thoughts were the worst part.

Quick, horrible flashes of something bad happening to James. Not that I would hurt him, more like my brain playing the most frightening images it could find, and me watching in horror. Giving him a bath and imagining him slipping. Carrying him near the balcony and my brain showing me something terrible, and then backing away, heart pounding, holding him tighter.

I thought I was going mad. I thought there was something evil inside me. I did not tell a single soul.

The moment I knew

It was a Tuesday. James was four months old, napping. I went to take a shower and somewhere in that shower I sat down on the floor and could not get up.

I sat there until the water turned cold.

When I finally stood, I looked in the mirror and genuinely did not know who was looking back at me. Not metaphorically. I stared at my face and something felt completely disconnected.

I called David at work and said, something is wrong with me.

He said, what do you mean? Are you sick?

And I said, I don't know. I just don't know.

That phone call was the hardest thing I had ever done. And also the most important.

Who I told, and who I did not

I told David some of it. The crying, the heaviness. Not the intrusive thoughts. He was tender but did not fully understand. He offered to take night duty. He meant well. It was not what I needed.

I did not tell my mother. She raised five children and never complained. I was terrified she would be disappointed, or say it was the devil, or ask why I was not happy when I had wanted this baby so badly.

I did not tell my friends. The ones with children seemed to be handling it beautifully. At least, their Instagram said so.

I did not tell my doctor at the six week check up. It lasted seven minutes and was almost entirely about my physical healing. Nobody asked how I was sleeping. Nobody asked how I was feeling in my mind. I was declared fit and sent home.

In our culture, there is a particular shame around mental health. New mothers in Nigeria are expected to be glowing and grateful. You just had a baby, what do you have to be sad about?

I carried it alone because I believed that speaking it out loud would make me a bad mother. A weak woman. A failure.

The path to getting help

Five months postpartum, I found a closed Facebook group for Nigerian mothers. One evening I saw a post from a woman describing almost exactly what I was experiencing. The weight, the crying, the feeling of being hollow, the intrusive thoughts.

Below her post were hundreds of comments from other women.

Me too. Me too. Me too.

I sobbed. Not sad tears. Relief tears. There was a name for this. Other women had felt it. I was not evil. I was sick, and sickness could be treated.

I messaged that woman. She recommended a therapist in Lagos who specialised in maternal mental health. I booked an appointment that same night before I could talk myself out of it.

My therapist, Dr. N., was the first person I told about the intrusive thoughts. I told her shaking, expecting alarm. Instead she explained calmly what they were. A symptom, not a sign of my character.

She said, the fact that these thoughts horrify you is proof you are a good mother.

I wept for the rest of that session.

After six weeks, she suggested medication. In my mind, medication meant I was really broken. It took two weeks to agree. But the low dose antidepressant lifted the floor just enough for me to do the therapy work. It did not numb me. It gave me enough stability to breathe.

My faith carried me too. I want to say clearly: prayer did not replace treatment, and treatment did not replace prayer. They worked alongside each other.

When I finally told David the full truth, he was quiet for a long time. Then he said, I'm so sorry I didn't see it sooner. He started joining some of my sessions. He was not always perfect, but he showed up.

What recovery looked like

It was not a straight line. Weeks of feeling better, then a setback. James sick for three nights. A hard week as a couple. And that old heaviness sitting back down on my chest.

My therapist told me recovery spirals upward. You are not back at zero. You are at a different point on the spiral, with more tools than before.

At about nine months postpartum, I started to feel like myself again. Not the old self. That woman did not know what she knew now. But a whole person. Someone who could laugh at a joke and mean it.

I was on medication for fourteen months. Today, James is five years old.

I am well. Not perfect, but well.

What I would say to a mum in her darkest moment

What you are feeling is not a character flaw. You are not weak. You are not a bad mother. You are sick, and sick people deserve care.

The thoughts that frighten you most are often symptoms, not truths. Tell a professional. I know it is terrifying. Tell them anyway.

Our culture will tell you to keep quiet. I am asking you to find one safe person and speak. Just one. Start there.

You will not feel like this forever. I am living proof. There is another side, and it is worth fighting to reach it.

If you recognise yourself in Happiness's story

Please reach out. You are not alone, and help exists. Here are some places to start:

Postpartum Support Network Africa (PSN Africa). A Nigeria based non profit that screens and supports mothers experiencing postpartum depression. Call 0811 354 6313 or visit psnafrica.com

SURPIN (Suicide Research and Prevention Initiative). A 24 hour helpline run by LUTH for Nigerians struggling with depression, anxiety, or thoughts of self harm. Toll free on 0800 787 7464. Other numbers: 0908 021 7555, 0903 440 0009, 0814 224 1007 (Hausa support).

Mentally Aware Nigeria Initiative (MANI). 24/7 free and confidential support. Call 0809 111 6264 or 0811 168 0686, or visit mentallyaware.org

Your doctor or nearest government hospital. Ask specifically to be screened for postpartum depression. You have the right to ask.

Postpartum Support International (PSI). Global resource that can help you find a provider. Visit postpartum.net

Your pastor, imam, or spiritual leader. Many faith communities now have trained counsellors who can be a bridge to professional help.

National emergency number: 112. If you are in immediate distress, please call this number, go to your nearest hospital emergency department, or call someone you trust right now.

To Happiness, thank you. You may have just saved someone's life.

Did this story resonate with you? Share it with a mother you love. And if you have a story of your own you would like to share, anonymously or otherwise, please reach out to us. You are never alone.