My throat was hoarse from screaming at the dog for barking. I wanted to get rid of him, my first baby, because he was so annoying. My hands were shaking. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I just wanted him to stop barking. Five minutes later, I had recovered but now I was feeling horrible.

Why did I get so insanely mad at my dog for doing what dogs do: barking at someone coming down our driveway? Why couldn’t I compose myself? Why was I full of rage? Why did I hate my dog who I really loved so much?

I was five months pregnant and felt like I was always angry. When I wasn’t angry, I was full of debilitating anxiety that ranged from worry about how my two-year old son would adjust to a new sibling to downright refusing to believe that I could love another child as much as I loved him. I had experienced depression and anxiety off and on since my teenage years, but this felt different. Never had I been so angry. I thought something was wrong with me.

I stared at the sign in the doctor’s exam room during one of my many prenatal visits. It had those tabs with a phone number on it that you could tear off and I looked at it every time I was in one of these rooms. It was a poster for a support network for expectant mothers and new moms experiencing depression and anxiety. Every time I looked at this poster, I vowed I would tell my doctor how I was feeling in that visit. But, I never did. And she never asked about my emotional state—the focus was always on my physical health and my baby’s well being.

My daughter was born the day before my own birthday, an early birthday present after months of loathing pregnancy. She was born via C-section, a decision that my doctor felt was best after my son was born with shoulder distortia. I was completely unprepared for the recovery and during my five day stay in the hospital, I felt increasingly anxious. She had jaundice and was losing weight too quickly, and it was all my fault. It was all I could focus on. And she slept so soundly those days. I felt like she already didn’t need me. I had already failed her.

Before being released from the hospital, I finally spoke up about how I was feeling. They prescribed me Zoloft, and recommended a counselor and follow up with my doctor. Two weeks postpartum and feeling more anxiety than I had ever felt in my life, I saw my doctor. She looked directly at me and said, “You’re not depressed. You can’t be depressed, you have a supportive husband.” I stared at her and instead of screaming at her, “What does my husband have to do with my anxiety anyway? There is something wrong with me!” I thought to myself, “Why am I so weak? Why can’t I handle this? I did this before, so why can’t I handle it now?” She took me off the Zoloft, and I began my battle against doctors to get the help I needed.

The anxiety and the anger got worse during my eight-week maternity leave. I would get so angry at my son for barely nothing and I would get so frustrated with my daughter—for not needing me enough, for not allowing me to bond with her. She slept a lot and I let her sleep, fearful of her waking and realizing my next failure as her mother.

When her pediatrician recommended that she be seen regarding her flat head, I practically lost my mind. I let her sleep too much and now she would have to wear a helmet and everyone would know what a horrible mother I was. In the end, she didn’t need a helmet, but the thoughts of my failure never went away.

I tortured myself for the first year of her life. I had a horrible counselor who made my anxiety feel like new mom worries. I had new mom worries with my son. Why was I torturing myself with all these thoughts of what could happen to my daughter? To me? To him? Why did they flood my head every minute of every day?

I tried multiple medications until my doctor felt she could no longer help and referred me to a psychiatrist. There was a six month waiting list, but I added myself to it, and tried to maintain some sanity as I returned to work. I had no focus at work. I spent hours searching for postpartum support in my area and there was none. I would have to drive to Boston to get proper help. I couldn’t drive 1.5 hours with a full time job and a two-month old and a two-year old. I was petrified that everyone knew I was failing. I took everyone’s comments and twisted them into negative attacks on me. I was convinced everyone was always talking about me and my failure as a mother.

It took over a year to find the proper medication and another year after that to find a counselor equipped to help me. Around this time, I began working with a life coach, trying to understand what it was I wanted to do with my life. I felt listless, like I had no purpose. I hated my job, which just added to my depression, and I had no hobbies or passions. I want something more out of my life. I needed something more. She helped me find my passion.

It was at this time that a friend mentioned how she believed that all new mothers should have a postpartum doula. I had never heard of one before. But from the moment I found out more about what a postpartum doula does, helping new mothers adjust to motherhood, I knew I needed to to train and become certified as a postpartum doula. I signed up for a three-month course and never looked back. The more I learned, the more I wanted to help new mothers. I decided to add postpartum/new mom coaching so I could help women virtually as well, and was certified as a virtual doula.

Helping new mothers transition into their new role as a caregiver while ensuring that they are taking care of themselves became my passion. I vowed to help as many mothers as I could, so that no one had to feel as lost as I had felt—with nowhere to turn and no hope to fall back on. I had to find it within myself to get the help I needed, and I just wanted to help women never feel alone like I did.

Through this addition to my life, I managed to heal myself further. I still experience more anxiety than I care to, but I know now that I am not failing as a mother. I am a warrior and now I am helping other mothers to be warriors as well, and nothing beats that feeling.