Words by Catherine McMaster
I was in my second trimester, pregnant with my second child when my midwife looked at me and said:
‘Signora, I don’t have the vocabulary or the tools to handle this. You need help.’
It was direct and her words jolted me, hard. It had been a difficult pregnancy. I had hyperemesis gravidarum, I was still breastfeeding my toddler and I was running on chronic sleep deprivation and fatigue. My fortnightly appointments with my midwife had become less like medical checkups and more like therapy sessions. I cried, often and I expressed my fears of the future with my 16-month old daughter and another coming.
The midwife spotted it before I did: ‘Signora, you need to see a psychologist.’
I was stunned — not because her words felt wrong, but because she named something I refused to see.
‘This is not solely about pregnancy. We need to change this negative lens. You are not in a good place.’
It was said with a familiar Italian directness I had come to understand after living and giving birth to my eldest daughter in Milan two years ago. I welcomed her earthside in an Italian hospital, alive and bustling with charismatic drama and Italian intensity. I remember being told to “sederti e mangi” — sit and eat — a plate of pasta ragù just two hours after giving birth, while listening to the hospital priest who walked the halls each evening, blessing mothers and newborns. I knew how to navigate the system, the language, the cultural nuances and the emotional discourse.
Still, I had always hoped my second child would be born in Australia.
While it was my dream to have her in Australia, I had resigned myself to the fact that it wasn’t possible. We didn’t have a house there, our work was in Europe and we were responsible adults with commitments; we couldn’t just lock up and leave for the birth. Could we?
My first trimester was difficult. I had a twelve month old at home who had just discovered the joys of walking and running, and possessed a raw, electric energy, which was both beautiful and exhausting. She was a low-sleep-needs baby, fiercely curious, endlessly hungry for life.
Physically I had pregnancy-induced hypertension, I vomited multiple times a day and I slept little and erratically. My body no longer felt like my own. I was a full-time mother, pregnant again, and clinging to fragments of my former identity through writing — though I rarely had the time, energy or mental capacity to do it.
And so, my mental health deteriorated. I listened to my Italian midwife and tried to find a psychologist I connected with in Italy, but I struggled to articulate the emotional nuance of my experience in a foreign language. I knew something wasn’t right, but I refused to look inward. I refused to believe that someone like me could be depressed. I had a loving, supportive husband, a daughter who I loved more than anything, another pregnancy that came easily. A home. Friends. Support. Privilege. How could I possibly justify depression?
We returned for a trip to Australia in November 2025, and it quickly became clear that something was deeply wrong. My marriage suffered, I felt despondent, anxious and withdrawn. And finally — finally — I received a diagnosis. Perinatal depression.
It wasn’t a shock. But I spiralled, nonetheless. I was entering my final trimester with depression, and the urgency terrified me. I felt an overwhelming pressure to “fix” myself before my baby arrived.
After my diagnosis, we made the decision to stay in Australia for the birth. It was not an easy decision to make. I felt as though I was retreating, letting people down. I never imagined I would be a 34-year-old woman living at home with my mother, husband and child and waiting for another baby to arrive. But this chapter requires softness. This is a raw, fragile moment in my life, and it is the right time to lean into care.
As a journalist, I channelled much of my energy into research. According to the Australian Institute of Health and Welfare, anxiety and perinatal depression affect a significant number of parents during pregnancy and the first year after birth, with childbirth-related post-traumatic stress impacting up to six per cent of mothers. The perinatal period is one of the most vulnerable times in a woman’s life. Enormous physical, hormonal and psychological change overlaps with sleep deprivation, identity shifts and the pressure to keep functioning as before. Postpartum depression alone affects one in five women in Australia — and one in ten fathers — with many parents remaining undiagnosed.
Over 70 percent of women delay seeking help until symptoms become severe — I was one of them. I waited over a year. I waited until my body forced me to stop. I was ashamed. I believed privilege made me immune.
In hindsight, the catalyst wasn’t a single moment, but a slow accumulation. Becoming pregnant again, struggling in a foreign system, and an Italian midwife naming what I couldn’t, forced me to confront what I had been suppressing. By the time I returned to Australia, my body had already reached its limit. It manifested as relentless crying, vivid nightmares, and waking alone at night whilst my daughter slept. My mind became a hostile, uncontrollable place. My fears intensified in the dark. I was easily triggered, unable to process emotion, consumed by dread. Fear became my constant companion – fear of the future, fear of the unknown, fear that I wasn’t good enough. Fear is corrosive, toxic. It eats away quietly, persistently.
I urge any mother who is struggling to seek help. To speak. To be open. To release guilt, shame and embarrassment. Our bodies hold our emotions long before our minds catch up.
Motherhood and pregnancy are a collective journey, but it can also be profoundly isolating. We are told it will be the most beautiful, empowering time of our lives – and it can be – but simultaneously, we are also hormonally depleted, chronically sleep deprived, emotionally stretched, and redefining our identities. It can be the most precious chapter, and the most challenging.
I never thought I would suffer from depression during early motherhood and pregnancy. Receiving my diagnosis was difficult. Like so many women, I had suppressed my emotions, convincing myself that my anger, sadness and despair were simply the by-products of exhaustion, pregnancy and caring for a toddler.
Those things mattered, but they also masked something deeper.
Since speaking openly, I have been overwhelmed by messages from other mothers describing similar fears, struggles and silent suffering. Their honesty has strengthened my own.
Australia has an extraordinary network of support services for parents from PANDA to the Gidget Foundation and more. Use them. Speak to professionals. Lean on friends, partners, family. No one expects perfection. Our flaws and vulnerabilities are not weaknesses, they are what shape us as mothers, and what allow us to raise emotionally honest children.
And above all, give yourself grace.
I am still learning how to do that.
If you are struggling during pregnancy or early parenthood, support is available. In Australia, organisations such as PANDA (Perinatal Anxiety & Depression Australia), Gidget Foundation Australia and Lifeline offer confidential support for parents and families.
