The next morning, once Ryan had gone to work and Lily was asleep, I made a choice. I picked up the phone and called the Hope Recovery Center.
“Hi,” I said when someone answered. “My name is Julia. I think my husband has been attending your support group meetings, and I’d like to know if there’s a way I can be involved.”
“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “I’ll be there.”
That Wednesday, I asked my sister to watch Lily and drove to the community center myself. My hands were slick with sweat as I stepped inside and headed to a different room than the one where Ryan attended his meetings.
Inside, about eight women were seated in a circle, and I instantly recognized the same hollow, haunted expression on their faces—the very one I’d been wearing for weeks.
“I’m Julia,” I said when it was my turn to introduce myself. “My husband has been coming here because our daughter’s birth was traumatic. But I think I need help too. I’ve been feeling so alone and confused.”
A woman named Sarah offered me a gentle smile. “Birth trauma affects both parents, Julia. You’re exactly where you need to be.”
Over the next hour, I learned that what Ryan and I were going through was classic post-traumatic stress. The nightmares, the avoidance, the emotional distance—it was all the mind’s way of trying to shield itself after experiencing something terrifying.
“The encouraging part,” the group leader said, “is that with the right support and honest communication, couples can face this together and come out stronger.”
When I left the meeting, I felt hopeful for the first time in weeks. I had a plan.
That evening, I waited for Ryan to come home from his support group. He looked startled to see me awake in the living room, holding Lily.
His face drained of color. “Julia, I—”
“I followed you,” I cut in gently. “I know about the therapy. I know about the trauma group.”
Ryan sank into the chair across from me, looking worn down. “I didn’t want you to worry,” he said. “You’ve already been through so much.” I sat beside him, still cradling our sleeping daughter. “Ryan, we’re a team. We can heal from this together.”
That’s when he finally looked straight at Lily.
“I was terrified of losing you both,” he said, brushing her tiny hand.
“You don’t have to carry that fear alone anymore,” I whispered.
Two months later, we’re both in couples counseling.
Ryan holds Lily every morning now, and when I see him gazing at her with love instead of fear, I know we’ll be alright.
