In the depths of my wardrobe lies a cherished pyjama shirt, one that has been untouched for over a year. This worn piece of clothing recalls fond memories, particularly those Christmas mornings shared with extended family. However, after a harrowing experience with PTSD last January, it became a symbol of a turbulent time, with one sleeve torn off in a moment of overwhelming emotion while I wore it.

Describing the chaos that led to such a breakdown is challenging. I remember yelling at my husband while our nine-month-old son peacefully slumbered nearby. The look of confusion on his face as he witnessed the unraveling of the woman he married is etched in my mind. I felt trapped in a metaphorical tunnel where my reality made sense, yet no one could grasp my anguish.

Writing about this is a daunting task, but I’ve come to realize that many individuals, especially women, manage their daily lives while grappling with deep-seated emotional wounds.

Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) took root in me after my son fell seriously ill just weeks after his birth. Initially, I felt fortunate, as I described my newborn as a “polite” baby. He fed well, settled easily, and spent a significant amount of time asleep. However, a routine infection quickly spiraled into a life-threatening situation. The doctor warned that if we had delayed even a moment longer in seeking help, my child might not have survived.

Following four sleepless nights in the hospital and three days of at-home intravenous treatment, my son showed signs of recovery by mastering the skill of rolling over. I spent that week in shock, overwhelmed by the series of hospital routines—observation checks, failed attempts at cannulation, blood tests, and x-rays—desperately waiting for reassuring news from the doctors that vital signs were stabilizing. I discovered I couldn’t bear to watch as they drew blood or attempted to insert IV lines into my son. While my husband comforted our distressed child, I found myself pacing the hospital corridors, anxiously awaiting silence.

When we finally returned home, relief soon morphed into a harsh reality. My son began waking up as many as 15 times each night, and the adrenaline that had sustained me ebbed away, leaving exhaustion in its wake.

In the year that followed, I masked my PTSD symptoms while attempting to care for my son. His cries often triggered intense flashbacks, transporting me back to moments of distress during his illness. Walking down the street, I would suddenly feel the panic of that day we rushed to the emergency room, or the anguish of hearing his cries during failed medical procedures. Thoughts of inadequacy plagued me, convincing me that my son disliked me and my husband no longer loved me. As he cried in the backseat of the car, fury and fear overcame me, reminiscent of my heightened emotional state during his hospitalization.

Yet, I felt compelled to maintain a façade, believing everyone else had moved on. My son had recovered, my husband resumed his work, and my new mom friends took their babies out to enjoy the sun. Conversations tended to revolve around my son’s chubby thighs or blond hair, glossing over the gravity of his near-fatal illness. Everyone appeared fine, which led me to believe I should be as well.

Despite this outward appearance, I was deteriorating internally. Three months after his recovery, a vacation in Italy revealed the extent of my struggles to my husband. I was on edge, quick to stress over trivial matters like setting up a travel cot. His unwavering support was invaluable as he helped me navigate through my emotional storms, still trying to understand their cause.

Looking back, I realize my true feelings were often concealed. The pivotal moment came when I broke down in tears at the pediatrician’s office, frantic for my son to receive a vaccination after multiple appointment failures. The doctor recommended I reach out for the local council’s mental health services. Four months later, I met with a therapist who confirmed my battle with PTSD. I will always appreciate his persistent insistence on addressing my mental health.

I was in denial about my condition and shocked to learn that PTSD could affect women, a notion I had not considered before, believing it was primarily a male experience reserved for soldiers returning from combat. The psychotherapist Lotte van Kouwen explains that symptoms of trauma often go unnoticed in women, as behaviors associated with trauma, such as anxiety, are normalized and seen as part of womanhood.

People often struggle to empathize with trauma; they tend to rush to solutions, thinking, “Your child is fine now, isn’t that enough?”. This dismissal leaves individuals feeling isolated and unable to share their experiences, burying their emotions instead.

For me, the trauma surrounding my son’s illness was resolved when he recovered, but I was left bereft of a space to articulate my feelings afterward.

Ultimately, I found healing through 12 sessions of cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT), where I was guided to revisit and reflect on the most traumatic episodes from our hospital experience. I learned to acknowledge how deeply my son’s illness had affected me. When feelings of dread resurface during his moments of distress—like when he’s overtired or irritable—I remind myself he is simply struggling in that instance and not in grave danger.

Now, my son is two years old. My weekly therapy sessions have illuminated the reality that, similar to grief, my trauma may never fully dissipate. However, I can build my life around it and develop coping strategies. I still experience triggers, which on occasion leave me feeling drained, but I am more open about my PTSD. It is easier to share this part of my life with strangers than to allow myself to crumble in front of those closest to me. While I have yet to shred any more pyjama shirts, the thought of mending the one I tore still lingers in my mind.

By embracing my journey, I have found others willing to listen patiently. I have also cultivated the ability to support others sharing their struggles. As my therapist has pointed out, trauma can be a catalyst for personal growth.