When I found out I was pregnant I cried, not out of happiness but out of terror, because I was already 2 months into the scariest depression of my life and knew I wasn't healthy enough to deal with the physical and emotional challenges of a pregnancy, much less becoming a mother. I've dealt with depression for 20+ years and am very familiar with enduring the ups and downs of life, but this was a new horrifying depth. I spent months not wanting to be alive. I haven't been able to work, and I am embarrassed about that. I have to remind myself that my accomplishments over the past 15 months are that I grew this healthy girl and that I survived. I'm now back on an antidepressant medication that saved my life once before. I don't like being on it because my ego makes me feel bad about it, and because people that don't understand think it's a cheap and easy way out. It's not. Some of us out here have brains that can't be cured from green juice and exercise and therapy, and that's ok. My warrior of a husband wrote a song about fighting through this together and it's called Joan of Arc if you want to Spotify/google it. I love him and I love Mae. We made it out the other side and I'm going to wear color and be funny again I promise.