Sandy Jorgenson

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My daughter was just reaching her first birthday before the dense fog of postpartum depression started to lift off of me. I didn’t realize it right away, though – and I certainly hadn’t even realized I was suffering from PPD at all.

The tumult that’s been rippling through our country has me begging the question: what do we do when we feel the defeat of a woman and the rise of a monster bearing down on us?

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You'll have to excuse me while I sit myself down for one stern-ass pep talk about the importance of trusting my gut, having the courage of my convictions, and marching bodly ahead in my resove to absorb every last minute I get with my growing girl, knowing that never again will these days be upon me.

You’d have a hell of a time if you ever dared to crawl through the recesses of a first-time mother’s brain.

Death, we know because it’s drilled into us from an early age, is a natural part of life.

Two years ago, I had a two-year-old daughter who’d never met her grandfather.

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But what can be said for the day upon which I am no longer enough? I dread that day.