Is My PPA Going Crazy? Common Signs And Small, Realistic Strategies For New Parents
I’m standing at the kitchen sink at 7:12 a.m., staring at a half-opened jar of baby oatmeal. My 4-month-old is propped in the bouncer next to me, chewing on a silicone teether, cooing like nothing’s wrong. But my hands are shaking so bad I can’t twist the lid tight enough to close it. Last night I checked his breathing 17 times before 2 a.m. Three days ago I cried for 45 minutes because I couldn’t find the exact brand of diaper wipes he tolerates at the grocery store. I was diagnosed with postpartum anxiety (PPA) at my 6-week checkup, and every time I type “Is my PPA going crazy?” into a postpartum group chat, I delete it before hitting send.
I got the diagnosis right on schedule, started a low dose of medication and went to weekly therapy, and for the first month or so, it felt like things were leveling out. I could go to the doctor alone, I could leave the baby with my mom for an hour without panicking. Then around his 3-month birthday, the tightness in my chest came back, sharper this time. It didn’t hit as a big, dramatic breakdown. It crept in as a hundred tiny, unnecessary habits. I turn the car around twice on the way to playgroup because I’m convinced I forgot the diaper bag, then check the backseat three times after I park anyway. I sort his onesies by size three times a week when he’s napping, even though I know he can’t wear the next size up for another month.
I brought all this to my therapist last week, slouched into her faded couch and told her I was scared I was losing it. If PPA was supposed to be getting better, why was I acting like this? Was it normal, or was I actually going crazy?
She set down her lukewarm peppermint tea and asked me what I thought “going crazy” meant. I said it meant I was overreacting, that normal new parents don’t do these weird little rituals to calm down. That I’m scaring myself with how out of control my own brain feels.
She told me something that stuck, that I wish more people talked about. PPA rarely looks like the dramatic, screaming breakdown you see in movies. For most new parents, especially people who learned to shrink their own needs to take care of everyone else, it lives in the tiny stuff. Your brain was just put through a massive, life-altering change, and its built-in threat detector got stuck on “high.” It goes off for no actual fire, just the toaster popping or a missing pack of wipes. That’s not crazy. That’s just your alarm system broken.
We tried three small, low-effort adjustments that week, no big lifestyle overhauls required. The first was the one-check rule. Any time I get the urge to check something for the second or third time—breathing, the diaper bag, the lock on the front door—I get one check. One only. After that, I write the urge down in a cheap spiral notebook I keep by the fridge, and move on. I tried it the first night we talked, and when the urge to check my son’s breathing hit again 20 minutes after my one check, I just glanced at the notebook where I’d written “11:24 p.m. — breathing fine” and rolled over. The shaking didn’t go away immediately, but it faded after 10 minutes instead of hanging around for an hour.
The second is 10-minute daily worry time. I slot it right into the 3 p.m. naptime window, when he’s usually down for at least half an hour. For 10 minutes, I let myself think through every what-if my brain has been throwing at me all day. If there’s something I can actually fix in that 10 minutes—tighten the car seat latch, order more wipes—I do it once. If it’s a hypothetical what-if that I can’t do anything about, like what if he gets sick next month, I just write it down and close the notebook. I don’t think about it again until the next day’s worry time.
It sounds too simple to work, but it takes the power away from the random worries that pop up at 8 a.m. while I’m trying to make coffee. Last week, when I was mid-shower and got hit with the intrusive thought that my partner forgot to put the stroller brake on at the park, I almost texted him three times. Instead I jotted the thought down in my notes app and waited for 3 p.m. By the time worry time rolled around, they were already home, my son was passed out in his car seat, and the thought didn’t even matter enough to write in the notebook.
I still have bad days. Two days ago I had to leave the grocery store 10 minutes after I got there because I got so worked up thinking I’d left the baby’s car window cracked open (he was safe at home with my mom, the car was parked in full shade). I sat in the parking lot for 10 minutes breathing, drove home, and ordered pizza for dinner instead. It wasn’t a win, but it wasn’t a failure either. I didn’t spiral for the rest of the day the way I would have a month ago.
The thing no one tells you when you get diagnosed with PPA is that it doesn’t follow a straight line of improvement. It gets better, then it gets a little worse, then it levels out again. I still sometimes google the question I’m too scared to ask anyone out loud. But lately, I close the search tab before I read anything that tells me I should be “healing” faster or doing more to fix myself. Right now, one check and 10 minutes of worry a day is enough. Some days that’s all any of us can do.
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