Some new parents are blessed with champion sleepers from the moment they bring their bundle of joy home. Some new parents, like my husband and I, think they’ve got a champion sleeper on their hands while in the hospital, only to arrive home as a newly-minted trio to discover that the baby you met in the hospital develops an entirely new biorhythm when brought into the confines of your home. In fact, our son, now two and a half, did not sleep through a single night for the first 18 months of his life. As a result, neither did I.

One important point a friend brought up, about six months into my new parenthood, was that sleep deprivation is used as torture. Parents dive right into this headfirst, many without the slightest idea of what they’re about to get into! And they do so joyfully, too. My husband and I were absolutely filled with joy. But parenthood isn’t all joy; and sometimes, in the wee hours of the morning as I cradled my demanding son in the near-dark of his nursery, sadness, desperation, and exhaustion were much more prominent.

I had gone into motherhood somewhat blindly. Not to make this a sob story, but my pregnancy coincided with my father’s diagnosis with pancreatic cancer. A month to the day before my son was born, my father succumbed to this brutal disease. (I swore up and down that anyone to say to me at the funeral that it was “a shame my son would never meet his grandfather” would get nasty replies. If I stuck to that, that would have been one memorable service!) I was preoccupied with my father’s illness and care during my pregnancy, more so than really delving into the recommended reading for expectant mothers. I gave my birth plan cursory attention. I knew I would breastfeed, but didn’t seek additional insight.

Moreover, I have always prided myself on my stoicism. I have always believed I can take whatever life throws at me, and keep on plugging. And while my husband is an amazing and supportive partner, he’s also a firefighter. As such, he works many nights. That meant I was flying solo with my sleep-averse son frequently. More than that, I was the food source, so it was “mama or bust” for most nighttime wakings.

As I groped about blindly in the year and a half of fussy child that ensued his birth, I was in a hazy place in all ways. Was it postpartum depression? Regular depression? Joy? Grief? Confusion? Frustration? You name the emotion, and I had it. And ignored it.

The term “Mombie” is reductive and dismissive, but it accurately describes the state of half-waking a person is in when they don’t properly sleep for days, then weeks, then months on end while caring for a child. But the funny thing is that the state of sleep deprivation was what made me realize I needed more.

First, when my son was eight weeks old, I sought help for breastfeeding. I knew it wasn’t normal for him to be seeking to nurse every hour (although sometimes it can be due to cluster-feeding), and for my breasts to be painfully full just as frequently. Adjusting my milk production was a difficult endeavor, but it helped both of us sleep more, if not throughout the night. He was finally getting more satiating milk from each nursing session, and was able to stretch his feedings to every 90 minutes, then two hours, then three as he grew. This meant more solid continuous sleep for both of us.

Then, when my son was about ten months old, I finally – FINALLY – sought professional help. It was 2:47 a.m. on a Tuesday in December when my sleeplessness got the better of me and I began to weep as my son dozed in my arms. I didn’t stop crying until sunrise and knew once and for all that I could not do this alone. I found a therapist who specializes in pre- and postpartum mental health. Something clicked with her right away, and it was instantly like a weight began to lift. A mom herself, I had someone to talk to who fully understood when I described the terror and joy that come as an inseparable pair. And she help me seek new ways to cope.

It wasn’t until my son’s 16^th month that I finally started exercising again. Never a gym rat, I had totally given up my semi-regular rowing machine sessions completely by my eighth month of pregnancy. After that, I barely had the energy to wrestle a sports bra onto my body, never mind exercise. (Honestly, why isn’t sports-bra-donning included in calorie burn?). We all know the benefits of exercise, but it wasn’t the activity as much as the time for myself that was cathartic. Even 20 minutes a day made a difference; I could tune everything out and focus on the rhythmic hum of the machine and my movements. It was a step toward real “self-care,” a trendy term I roll my eyes at while acknowledging its value.

Ultimately, the 18 months of sleepless struggle taught me one overarching truth: being a truly strong mother, a really capable one, meant seeking support and making time for myself.

My son sleeps like a dream and still naps three hours a day now.