My Battle with Postpartum Manic Psychosis

Our Second Son and I, 8 weeks postpartum
Photo Credit: Taylor Haff Photography

I used to think the worst part about acute onset manic psychosis was the intensity—the racing thoughts, the boundless energy, the inability to slow down. I was wrong. The worst part is the awareness. It is knowing you are unraveling while it is happening. Feeling your mind speed up, recognizing that you are becoming manic, and realizing that no amount of willpower or prayer alone can calm you down. You are present enough to understand what is happening, but not well enough to stop it.

The best part about the world we live in today is that help exists. Some medications can bring you down and help you stabilize. Some doctors understand this illness. There are hospitals that can keep you safe. The difficult part is finding the right balance. Too little medication, and you are too high. Too much, and you feel foggy, exhausted, and unlike yourself. Stability lives in a narrow space, and finding it takes time, patience, humility, and the right support.

This is the story of my battle with postpartum acute-onset manic psychosis. I experienced it twice, once after each of my sons were born. While both episodes were serious, they unfolded very differently, and each taught me something profound about faith, surrender, and the courage it takes to ask for help.

Our First Son, newborn 

After the birth of my first son, everything unraveled quickly, and I experienced postpartum psychosis. What followed was nearly a year of trial and error. Finding the right medication took far too long. During that year, I cycled through medication changes, Emory Hospital stays, ECT treatments at Emory Hospital, and periods of deep despair. I was fighting for my life, even when I didn’t fully realize it. It affected not only me, but my husband, our baby, and everyone who loved us.

Eventually, a new doctor at Peachford Hospital made a decision that changed everything. He put me back on the medication I had been stable on before pregnancy. Within two days, I was myself again. The contrast was almost unbelievable. But the damage of that long year left lasting scars. I emerged from it believing—deeply—that our family was complete. I did not think I could survive going through that again.

For eight years, I believed that with certainty. Life slowly became peaceful again. Stability returned. And then, quietly and gently, God changed my heart. There was no dramatic moment. No loud declaration. Just a steady, unmistakable feeling from the Holy Spirit that if I walked this road again, I would not walk it alone. God never promised it wouldn’t happen again. He never promised it would be easy. But He promised He would help me get through it, again.

Second Son, 12 days old
Photo Credit: Taylor Haff Photography

When our second son was born, the illness returned quickly and fiercely. I did not sleep for the first fourteen days of his life. I was recovering from a C-section, in significant pain, and hesitant to take strong pain medication. The exhaustion fed the mania, and the mania fed the exhaustion. I could feel myself becoming unstable, and I knew I would not be able to get better on my own.

The turning point came unexpectedly. Our older son looked at me and said, “You’re getting manic.” Hearing it from him cut through everything. His words grounded me in reality. I knew there was a small window where I could still make a clear decision before my mind convinced me otherwise. I told my husband I needed to go to the hospital. He already knew that 3 days before I admitted it.

We had already hired a nighttime nanny to help care for the baby so both my husband and I could get sleep. She stayed with our boys while my husband drove me straight to the mental health facility. There was urgency, but there was also peace. We knew this was the right decision.

Second Son, 12 days old
Photo Credit: Taylor Haff Photography

Walking through those doors meant leaving my newborn. It meant leaving my older son and my husband. That separation was one of the hardest things I have ever endured. The grief of it sat heavily on my chest. But it was also one of the bravest choices I have ever made.

This time, I had better doctors. I was treated by the same doctor who helped stabilize me after my first son—someone I trusted deeply. I also had a new doctor who was highly experienced. Together, we followed a written plan we had prepared in advance. Instead of changing all my medications, they kept me on what I had been stable on before pregnancy and temporarily added additional medication to bring me down safely.

Emotionally, it was still incredibly difficult. While in the hospital, I wrestled with guilt and shame. I was angry with myself for being there again, knowing the risks. I felt as though I had somehow done this to myself. But even in that place, God met me with grace. He reminded me that seeking help is not failure. It is wisdom. It is obedience. It is an act of love—for myself, for my children, and for my husband.

The hospital was a safe place for me to heal. I was in a severe postpartum acute onset mania, and I would not have survived trying to manage it alone. God worked through doctors, medication, and structure to restore my mind.

Second Son, 1 year old
Photo credit: Taylor Haff Photography

Over the next five months, I slowly tapered off the extra medication. We did it carefully and intentionally, and I remained stable the entire time. Around that same season, we shut down an unsuccessful business. While difficult, it allowed me to stay home, focus fully on my health, and truly enjoy our new baby. At the same time, my husband began a new business venture with a partner—a fresh start that, over time, grew into something healthy and successful.

Looking back now, I see God’s faithfulness woven through every part of this story. James 1:12 says, “Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial because, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love him.” That verse carried me when I felt weak. It reminded me that endurance has purpose.

I also clung to the truth of Psalm 34:19: “The righteous person may have many troubles, but the Lord delivers him from them all.” And Isaiah 41:10 became a quiet reassurance: “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

God did not promise ease. But He promised presence. He promised help. And He kept His word.

Current picture with our sons, 11 years and 18 months
Photo Credit: Hayden Cate Photography

If you are struggling with mental illness, please hear this: asking for help is not a weakness. It is a strength. It is courage. It is faith in action. Healing is possible, and you do not have to walk this road alone.

If you need mental health care and are in Georgia, I recommend Peachford Hospital at 2151 Peachford Rd, Atlanta, GA 30338.