What severe postpartum illness actually felt like—and why the Lindsay Clancy case haunts me
I know how deeply heartbreaking and sensitive this topic is for everyone, but I wanted to share a personal perspective. This case completely crushes me, and my heart aches for those beautiful children. They had so much life to live. I am in no way defending Lindsay Clancy—I was not in her shoes that horrible day. But as a mother who survived severe postpartum illness, I want to talk about my own experience.
I had my youngest and last baby at the end of December. After having postpartum preeclampsia for the third time, I had my tubes removed—having babies had simply become too dangerous for my body. Having suffered from a full year of debilitating postpartum anxiety after my second child, I thought I was in the clear when I felt stable this time around. In April, I saw my doctor, passed the postpartum screening, and said I was doing well—though I did mention to my husband that day that I had this weird brain fog.
Fast forward just two days, and my mind completely unraveled.
I am a very hands-on mother with young kids on the spectrum who need a lot of extra care, but suddenly this intense, overwhelming restlessness took over and I couldn't stop moving. I paced back and forth for hours, ignoring how exhausted and sore my legs were. When I wasn't pacing, I was stuck in bed—either sleeping way too much or unable to sleep at all. My routine vanished. I couldn't eat, I couldn't drink coffee, and my brain felt completely shut off.
I wasn't able to reach out to my loved ones—not even a close friend I trust with everything and had always turned to in the past. Part of me kept thinking I could just handle it, but I was completely mentally paralyzed. Even though my hands worked and I was physically capable of sending a message, there felt like an actual physical wall in my brain preventing me from doing it. It sounds impossible to people who haven't been there, but I learned firsthand just how powerful of an organ the brain really is when it malfunctions.
When I looked in the mirror, I couldn't even recognize myself. It was terrifying depersonalization and dissociation—like I was looking right through myself, completely detached and watching my own body move from an outside perspective. I couldn't cry; I was completely numb, like I wasn't in charge of my own brain and was losing control by the second. After many days, I finally walked up to my husband in pure panic and said, "What if I can't stop? What if I need to go to the hospital? I can't stop moving."
I was so lucky to have good doctors who truly cared about my well-being and took everything seriously. My doctor talked with my family to make sure I had continuous support and wasn't managing things on my own. I was diagnosed with severe postpartum depression and spent a few weeks staying with my parents to rest and heal. Between having that support system and finding a specialist who started me on Lexapro, things finally started to turn around.
When the numbness began to lift, I was sobbing and begging for my old self back. I think most people picture postpartum depression as just being sad or crying a lot, but for me, it was so much more than that—it felt like regular depression on steroids. Watching my brain change out of nowhere into something completely unrecognizable was terrifying.
I am endlessly thankful I never had harmful thoughts toward my children. But this case hits me so hard because I truly thought I would never be me again, and that my family would start over because the person they knew was gone. How do we know Lindsay Clancy’s mind didn’t feel completely paralyzed too? Maybe she wasn't able to self-reflect and understand what was happening to her in time.
I wish Lindsay Clancy had the chance to be herself again. I wish a medication had worked for her, and I wish she had never been left alone.
Everyone loses here. There is no winning—the whole thing is just an absolute tragedy.