Words by Haylee Penfold
It changed so quickly—from the cheerful “So happy for you!” comments on my Facebook post, featuring my partner, our dog, and a positive pregnancy test, to the snarky “Just you wait” remarks that start rolling in once you’re pregnant.
I had longed for this pregnancy. I stabbed myself with needles for IVF and spent thousands just to see those two lines on the test. Yet, pregnancy still sucked. Maybe that’s where my blues began—not the deep, heavy kind of blues, but a lighter shade, like a summer sky. Still blue, but deceptively easy to overlook. I was sick, really sick, but I was finally pregnant—I had what I’d so desperately wanted. I couldn’t allow myself to feel ungrateful. “It will be so worth it!” people told me, but their words felt more like a “you asked for this” as the kilos dropped off and the relentless vomiting took over.
I survived on toast and Boost juice most of my pregnancy and I counted down the days to my scheduled c-section. I battled through PTSD episodes and got through the birth of my son.
It brought me my baby blue. Holding him made it nearly impossible to remember anything else.
The nurse warned me to prepare for the baby blues, especially given my history with depression. I thought, How hard could it be? Surely, nothing could compare to the storms my mind had weathered before. But then came the night—a deep, navy darkness—that swallowed me whole when my son was admitted to the Newborn Intensive Care Unit. The crash was instant. I plummeted from the highest high to depths I could never have prepared for. I remember seeing him, so tiny, hooked up to endless cords. My baby blue looked impossibly small, swaddled in fabric that seemed to engulf him. The sight stole my breath, leaving me suffocating under clouds that felt unbearably heavy.
That was only the second day. By the third, I was alone in the ward, my baby still in the NICU. Though it was just 500 meters away, the distance felt insurmountable, and I barely slept. The tightness in my abdomen from the c-section wound grew unbearable, my entire body ached, and something inside me felt deeply, inexplicably wrong. My chest was heavy, and even getting out of bed seemed impossible. It was only the second day with my tiny baby blue, and he was already not okay. What did I do wrong? The thought consumed me as tears spilled before I could even wipe them away. That day, it felt like the sun refused to rise—the dark navy sky lingered, refusing to let go.
I tried to repaint the picture, to change its shades. We brought our baby home, wrapped in the fragile warmth of our little bubble. I surrounded him with clothes in soft greens and sunny yellows, but all I could think about was blue. I held him close in his white onesies, kissed him goodnight, and rolled over to check on him—once, twice, three times—before I could even try to sleep. “Motherhood is worrying, you’ll see,” people would say. So I must be doing something right, I told myself. Yet each comment, no matter how well-meaning, felt like another paint stroke on a canvas I was desperately trying to salvage.
“Where are his socks? It’s cold outside you know” the old lady says passing me by while I push my pram at the shops
“You contact nap with your baby?” A mother said in playgroup.
“Breastfeeding will always be hard, but it’s so worth it” I read on my phone screen with tears rolling down my face.
Though these mums likely didn’t mean any harm with their words, it didn’t take away the sting. The paint on their brushes, the fuel in their comments, burned like acid. My blue grew darker, sinking so deep into the trenches that I forgot what blue skies looked like or how the ocean shimmers when it’s clear. All I could see was darkness.
Five months after his birth, I got sick and needed another surgery—this time for my bladder. I could barely hold my baby, maybe for ten minutes at a time, lying in bed. He’d just discovered his legs and loved kicking them every chance he got. I used to adore watching him do it in the pool, but I’d forgotten what that joy felt like. He didn’t mean to hurt me—I knew that—but those little legs would kick right where I was still sore from the surgery. My body hadn’t truly healed from where he came into the world, and now it had to endure this too. I spent three nights in the hospital while my partner and baby stayed in a nearby hotel. That same painful distance I’d felt when he was in the NICU returned, and with it, the crushing sense that I’d failed again.
I look at my son and wonder if I could survive doing it all again. Maybe not. But for now, I’ve learned to admire the colour blue. It may never be my favourite, but when it shows up—those blue skies paired with sunshine—I savour it. They’ve brought me tiny fingers that wrap around my own and little eyes that light up when they see me. Those moments feel like stars scattered across the darkest nights, guiding me toward the sunrise.
