Navigating Anxiety, Motherhood, and the Power of Perinatal Mental Health Care
By Maggie Meyers
[Trigger warning: child loss]
In 2016, I made a decision I thought was best for my future family: I weaned off my SSRI medication, which I had been taking for generalized anxiety and panic disorder. I wanted to “prime” my body for pregnancy, and at the time, I believed going off medication was the most responsible choice.
Without the support of my SSRI, my anxiety returned with intensity—amplified by the emotional rollercoaster of trying to conceive, which required fertility treatments. The obsessive thoughts, the spiraling worry, the overwhelming sense that something was wrong even when nothing was—it became a daily battle. Once I became pregnant, I knew I couldn’t continue like this.
Early in that pregnancy, one the phenomenal midwives at Swedish Ballard referred me to a perinatal psychiatrist. That referral changed the course of my experience.
She didn’t just treat symptoms—she listened. She validated my fears. She walked me through evidence-based research on the risks of untreated anxiety during pregnancy versus the risks of taking medication. With her support, I made the informed decision to go back on my SSRI. That decision stabilized me. It helped me reclaim a sense of self and groundedness. It also marked my introduction into the world of perinatal healthcare. I am incredibly grateful for this pivotal moment, in which I gained access to specialized care by providers deeply steeped in the unique challenges of the perinatal period.
After my son was born, new challenges emerged. At 38 weeks, we learned he had an intrauterine growth restriction. This led to a brief NICU stay. Once we were home, I became consumed by his feeding and weight gain. I started weighing him obsessively after every feed, pumping compulsively, and tying my self-worth to whether I could nourish him “naturally.” It was textbook postpartum anxiety, though I didn’t recognize it at the time.
I also carried a sense of shame—for not realizing sooner in my pregnancy that something was wrong—and for believing I had to prove myself as a mother by doing everything perfectly. But again, compassionate care made the difference.
My perinatal psychiatrist and therapist helped me understand that the obsessive and compulsive worries I was experiencing—about feeding, about my baby’s weight, about getting everything “right”—weren’t just new-parent nerves. They were clinical signs that my anxiety was intensifying, and that I likely needed an adjustment in treatment.
Together, we made the decision to increase my SSRI dosage. They reframed it for me, not as a failure, but as a way to ensure I could show up fully for my child, my family, my team at work, and myself. Prioritizing my mental health wasn’t selfish—it was essential.
I’ll never forget the moment my psychiatrist asked me, “What percentage of your anxiety do you think your current dose is managing?” Without hesitation, I said, “Probably less than 50%.” That one question became a lasting self-check—one I still return to when I feel myself edging into high alert, experiencing “fight or flight” sensations in situations that are not actually life-threatening (but my brain registers them as threats, increasing my body’s cortisol production).
Of course, medication alone isn’t the whole story. Ongoing talk therapy has been just as vital, helping me process both old wounds and new challenges. So has my village: a web of connected, compassionate friends—many of them mothers—who remind me I’m not alone. That sense of belonging, of being seen and supported, is a powerful stabilizer. Wellness isn’t just about prescriptions. It’s about community, connection, and the freedom to ask for what you need.
When Trauma Resurfaces
When my son was just over a year old, tragedy struck: the other baby in his daycare class, a 11-month-old, died unexpectedly while in care. It was a devastating, unthinkable loss for that child’s family. And while I want to be clear that this was their loss—not mine—the experience reawakened a trauma I carried silently for decades.
When I was 12, my dad died suddenly of a heart arrhythmia. He was 51 years old—healthy, fit, and strong. A former NOAA hurricane pilot, he had always been a capable, grounded presence in our lives. A protector. His death shattered my understanding of safety and permanence. It taught me, too early, that the people we love can disappear without warning.
That awareness never fully left me. It lived in my body like a shadow, a silent alert system I couldn’t quite turn off. And when the daycare tragedy happened, that alert system roared back to life.
At work, I would sit frozen at my desk, unable to focus, my mind gripped by intrusive thoughts and worst-case scenarios. My brain was constantly scanning for danger, my body stuck in fight-or-flight. I was worried not only about my child’s safety, but about what might happen to me if I let my guard down. I knew I wasn’t okay—but I didn’t feel safe saying that out loud.
That clarity from my care team helped again when I returned to work. After coming out of the intense newborn months, I had lowered my SSRI dosage. But after the devastating daycare loss and the trauma it reawakened, it became clear that I needed more support. Thanks to the work I’d done with my psychiatrist and therapist, I didn’t spiral into guilt or second-guessing. It wasn’t dramatic—it was a simple, informed decision. I knew how to advocate for myself. I knew what I needed to stay well.
And this is the heart of trauma-informed care: understanding that even those of us who present as high-functioning, capable, and healthy—who are professionals, caretakers, leaders—can still carry wounds that resurface under stress. Trauma doesn’t disqualify you from being strong. But being strong also means knowing when to ask for help.
I’ve learned that I can be thriving and susceptible to triggers. I can be grounded in my daily life and still need support to navigate moments when my nervous system reacts like I’m under threat. Trauma-informed care recognizes that history lives in the body, and healing isn’t linear—it requires awareness, tools, and a compassionate system of support when things arise.
There’s an unspoken pressure on new moms to come back to work “focused,” to prove we haven’t lost our edge. I internalized that pressure. I worried that being honest about my mental state would confirm every stereotype about distracted, less committed working mothers. So I kept quiet. And I struggled.
Eventually, with support from my care team, I was able to name what was happening: this wasn’t just anxiety—it was trauma, reawakened and compounded by the intense vulnerability of early parenthood.
Where I Am Today
Today, I’m the proud mother of two healthy, vibrant children—now 5 and 7. Our home is full of energy, questions, and laughter. And while life is still full of challenges, I move through it with a sense of groundedness I didn’t always have.
When a health issue arose recently, I had the clarity and confidence to take a leave from work and tend to my own healing. That decision wasn’t easy, but it was essential. I’ve learned that caring for myself—physically, emotionally, and mentally—allows me to show up more fully as a mother, a partner, a friend, a daughter, a professional, and a community member. My health is not a luxury or an afterthought. It’s a foundation.
Today, I know I can rely on the support of my team—my psychiatrist, my therapist, my broader care network—and I’ve built habits that help me sustain wellness over time. I prioritize my mind-body health through daily movement, meditation, and nutrition that supports my metabolic and emotional well-being. These tools don’t replace medical care—they work in concert with it. My medication, therapy, and ongoing care remain essential parts of my life.
Together, this layered approach helps me optimize my health and stay resilient in the face of life’s inevitable stressors. It reduces the likelihood of burnout. It helps me catch anxiety early, before it takes over. And it reminds me that stability doesn’t come from doing it all alone—it comes from knowing when and how to ask for help.
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