I was induced at 39 weeks pregnant on Sunday, March 22nd, 2020. That was 11 days after Covid-19 was declared a global pandemic, 9 days after it was declared a national emergency, and 2 days after the first stay at home order in the States was issued. At that point in time, our knowledge was small, and the fear was big. The situation was worsening by the day, and as visitor restrictions tightened, I became afraid of having to labor alone.
We went to the hospital at 7:30pm. At 7:48 the next morning, I told the nurse and my husband that I was nauseous and felt like I was going to faint. They tried repositioning me, but I proceeded to lose consciousness temporarily a few minutes later. I was experiencing respiratory failure, and my oxygen levels were low enough to send me in and out of consciousness. At the same time, my son’s heart rate had dropped to the 60s. I was unplugged from the monitors and quickly moved for an emergency cesarean. My husband was left in the room alone, in shock about what had happened.
As the C section began, I was poorly responsive and cyanotic. My son, Henry, was delivered within minutes. He was born with an APGAR score of 0– he was blue, limp, and pulseless. He was quickly taken by the NICU team for resuscitation and a prompt cooling treatment, the protocol for babies who have been deprived of oxygen during birth. That would be the last time my son and I would be in the same room for another month due to the pandemic.
The OBs began closing my C section, but before they were finished, I went into cardiac arrest. A Code Blue was called, and they began CPR. The OR filled with 40-50 people who would work together to save my life over the next hour and a half.
I continued to arrest, so a large device called the LUCAS was used to perform chest compressions while the ECMO team was activated. At the same time, I began bleeding profusely from my C section wound. I was experiencing DIC, a condition that causes your blood to clot where it shouldn’t and then hemorrhage where clotting is necessary. A massive transfusion was called for.
Twenty minutes into my arrest, the doctors shocked me 3 times over the course of 5 minutes. Even then, my heart continued to malfunction. They continued CPR while replacing the blood I was losing until the ECMO team arrived. It would ultimately take about 25 units, or 8 liters, of blood products to stabilize me.
The team successfully placed me on ECMO 50 minutes into my arrest. ECMO is the highest form of life support and used for patients in persistent cardiorespiratory failure. On ECMO, my blood was removed from my body, oxygenated by a machine, and then placed back into my body continuously. This bought my heart and lungs the time they needed to recover.
Once ECMO flow was established and my DIC had begun resolving, I was stable enough to leave the OR.
Due to Covid, no one besides my husband had been allowed at the hospital for my delivery, but he was told that my family should come down once I had begun arresting. They wanted my family to have a chance to say goodbye because it didn’t look like I would make it. They all rushed down, were briefed on the events that were transpiring in the OR, then could only stay for a few hours before being asked to leave. It took about a day for my official diagnosis – I had suffered Amniotic Fluid Embolism, a rare, unpredictable birth complication.
I remained on ECMO for only two days, but I didn’t wake as expected after that. An MRI revealed that I had suffered numerous strokes as a result of my AFE, which were keeping me unconscious. My neurologist assured my family that I would wake in a few days time. He was wrong. Meanwhile, seven days after Henry’s birth, my husband brought my son home from the hospital. We are incredibly fortunate that Henry doesn’t seem to have been impacted by the circumstances of his birth – his MRI was normal, and he is developing beautifully.
When the Cardiac ICU started receiving Covid patients, I was transferred to the Neuro ICU. My prognosis became worse with each passing day. After two weeks of unresponsiveness and a mess of other complication, the hospital pushed to move me to a long-term care facility, as I would likely have long term physical and cognitive disabilities that would require months of treatment. On April 7th and 8th, a tracheostomy and gastrostomy were performed in preparation for that seemingly inevitable transfer.
But on April 9th, 16 days after my AFE, I finally began following commands. When I woke, I experienced hemiparesis on my right side. I couldn’t raise my right arm or hold a pen. My processing speed was quite slow. I had no memory of going to the hospital to give birth and believed I had miscarried due to a dream I had while comatose (the fact that Henry couldn’t come to the hospital reinforced this belief – I was no longer pregnant, and there was no baby). My inability to write accompanied by my inability to speak because of my tracheostomy led to days of confusion about where I was and what had happened—being mostly alone due to the pandemic didn’t help either. My husband had fought tooth and nail for an exception to the visitor policy, but he was granted only two hours per day. My anxiety always piqued as the night drew near – I couldn’t sleep, and I hated being alone in that hospital room. It would take about a week for me to remember going to the hospital to have a baby, and weeks to remember anything from my labor.
After 23 days in the ICU, I was approved for an inpatient rehab program. My husband’s visiting privileges would be cut to just an hour three times per week, but he was granted an exception to bring Henry in for the first time. A compassionate exception they called it (though it feels like that compassion was shown weeks too late). I didn’t want to go to rehab under these circumstances. I wanted to go home.
At check-in, I couldn’t sit myself up, stand, or walk. Movement of my right arm had improved, but I didn’t yet have the dexterity to write my name. I couldn’t put my hair up or brush my teeth on my own. I wasn’t yet approved to eat—all nutrition was still being managed through a feeding tube in my stomach. I was booked in for a 28 day stay with intensive physical, occupational, and speech therapy.
Meeting Henry for the first time, 1 month after his birth.
28 conscious days alone in a hospital was a no for me, and there has never been a better time for my stubbornness to shine. On April 21st, six days after check-in, I walked out of the hospital with no appreciable deficits. I was weak and my balance wasn’t perfect, so I couldn’t yet carry the 10 lb baby waiting for me at home. But I could at least hold him. Neuroplasticity is incredible.
My first year of motherhood has been unlike anything I could have imagined. A brain injury like the one I have gets better with each month that passes, but I spent the first 2-3 months of my time home too exhausted and weak to really care for my son. I’m also continuing to work through my grief and trauma surrounding Henry’s birth, which sometimes feels like a full-time job in a society that constantly reinforces that the day you give birth will be the “best day of your life.” I continue to be devastated by our month-long separation and the fact that everyone knew of his birth before me. I wish I could’ve been the first person to hold him. I try to balance my grief with gratitude for my survival and near complete recovery, but that can be difficult some days (those days are getting fewer and farther between thankfully). I am, however, so grateful for this birth trauma community – what a light when “normal” motherhood pages feel so dark.
I thought birth was going to be easy. I remember thinking “my body was meant to do this”, it can’t be that difficult! The only information I had was from a Pinterest board regarding what to pack in my hospital bag (which I didn’t use 90% of), and a few friends that had had babies before. All to which was helpful, but like they say, nothing can truly prepare you..
April 3rd was the scariest, yet most amazing day of my life. After all of the blood loss, internal and external tearing, bouts of unconsciousness, and overall trauma, I was forever changed. My memory of this day is fuzzy, and bits and pieces come to me as I navigate through my new life postpartum. I feel anxious most of the time, and have needed medication to cope with my new “normal”. I didn’t have that cinematic experience where my water broke, the scene where my husband and I are rushing around the house to find the hospital bag, and then speeding all the way to the hospital. In fact, leading up to delivery, it was pretty anti-climatic. I tried to labor at home for as long as I could, and mind you, this was at the height of COVID-19 pandemic, so several aspects of my delivery were impacted by restrictions. I had to be dropped off at the Emergency Room, alone, and walk through the entire hospital to the labor and delivery floor while my husband looked for parking. All of the parking garages were closed during that time because of these pandemic precautions. Eventually he made it to labor and delivery, carrying all of our excessively over packed bags, (and thankfully), was able to join me!
I labored all day, resting when I could in between increasing contractions. Periodically the nurse would come in and turn me from side to side. They finally told me that the baby was presenting OP (face up), so with the birthing ball wedged between my legs, they tried to physically turn the baby over by prodding and poking at my bulging, contracting uterus all day in an attempt to get him to flip. He wasn’t having it. Finally I progressed to a 10 and it was time to push. All of the birthing classes had been cancelled due to the pandemic, so the nurse quickly taught me how to breathe and push. By this time I was so ready to just get that baby out. I pushed for one hour and that is where things started getting a little fuzzy. I began feeling really sick and starting to fade in and out of consciousness. The last thing I really remember was blood. There was a lot of blood. My husband consented to a transfusion, as I was unable. I rolled on to my side, threw up, and began to lose my vision. I was done. My OB looked me in the eye and said, “if you don’t push, this baby has to come out one way or another. Your option is to push, or I will have to use forceps.” I pushed. At 8:13pm, Emerson Michael arrived. He was taken by NICU due to meconium, and the doctors attempted to stop my continued bleeding. My blood pressure dropped to incredibly low numbers and my vision started to disappear. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t move, I had apple juice being shoved down my throat, and smelling salts under my nose. I am not sure how much time passed, but the sutures began to work, and my bleeding began to slow. I started regaining consciousness and Emerson was laid on my chest with nurse supervision to ensure I was well enough to hold him. As we were immersed in our skin-to-skin time, my vision started to go again and Emerson was removed. My husband was allowed to hold him while the medical staff again tried to assist me in gaining consciousness. Finally, the bleeding stopped. My blood pressure began to normalize, and I was starting to feel better. I was given my baby back and was eventually wheeled to recovery. The damage was severe, and extensive. My recovery was going to be long and painful with the new found responsibility of my baby. My life will be forever changed.
Falling Apart, Physically and Emotionally
Following the birth of my baby, I was sent home with a third degree external tear, two lateral internal tears, and a newly reconstructed anus. After I got home, I was following all care instructions provided. I was taking sitz baths, using my peri bottle, taking Ibuprofen, and icing my lady parts. At this point, the pain was intense, but it was manageable. I was warned about the first poop postpartum, but didn’t really invest too much thought into how it would play out. When the time came and I attempted to poo, I pushed and immediately felt excruciating pain. I had a feeling that I had ripped the stitches on one of the internal tears. I stood up, was bawling, and began to bleed excessively. My OB was on vacation, so I called the nurses hotline and was instructed to look to see if I could see any damage. (Also, NEVER look down there after delivering a baby… I promise you, you will never be the same!) I couldn’t tell what I was even looking at, there were stitches, it was swollen, there was so much blood.. So they had me wait until the morning to be seen at the OB clinic. Because my OB was out, the rotating nurse attempted to assess the damage and sent me home with very little information about what had transpired. The tear began to heal improperly, causing pain and discomfort. I would later need a corrective surgery to cut the part that healed wrong and re-stitch the wound. During this time, I came down with my first round of mastitis. I was miserable, but continued to put on a happy face as a new mom. I wasn’t connecting with my son. I was in constant pain and struggling to breastfeed, my marriage was rocky, I wasn’t taking care of myself, and I fought with constant feelings of anxiety and depression.
As the time passed, I continued to have chronic pain in my vaginal area. My perineum skin was beginning to split from the third degree tear repair following delivery, creating the shape of an “8”. The perineum was ripping open to my actual vaginal opening, and I would need another surgery to clip the skin between my vagina and perineum, this would create a large vaginal opening. The thought of not being able to use tampons again, intercourse being forever impacted, knowing I will eventually need a full vaginal reconstruction surgery, and my overall decompensating mental health due to my body “failing me” during the one thing women are “supposed to do,” I was starting to break. Following this surgery, I continued to have medical complications related to birth: 3 more bouts of mastitis, abscesses drained on my nipples, thrush, hemorrhoids, and an ER visit for an infection in my breast that was drained and followed by 21 days of antibiotics. I was granted an additional two months off of work to continue to heal, but I was a mess. My relationships were starting to deteriorate. I was fighting with my parents (who were trying to help), and my husband regularly. Anything would set me off into fits of rage. I wasn’t able to cope with small changes, wake windows were making me so anxious I would have full-blown panic attacks, and I would lay in bed for days unable to move. I needed help. I googled “postpartum therapy” and was directed to a provider in my area. She was great at listening and validating my feelings. She continued to say she didn’t think I needed medication, “because as a mental health provider, I know good coping skills”. At first, I agreed with her, I kept thinking it would go away, and my postpartum was just a 6-months stint of the “baby blues”.
Putting Myself Back Together
I quit therapy and tried to “cope” my way through my postpartum. I had connected with a friend who talked to me about her postpartum experience, telling me it was ok that I was feeling the way I was, and encouraged me to speak with my provider about how I was feeling. The day before my doctor’s appointment, my postpartum rage was at an all-time high. My husband and I got into an argument and I pushed him. My mom and dad came over and told me I needed to seek help, they took my baby for the night so I could get some sleep, and I attended my appointment in the morning. I broke down. I was so ashamed of myself. I was humiliated. I had put hands on my husband, the one person who had stuck with me and supported me through this madness. I was worried he was going to leave me and that my doctor would think I didn’t love my baby. She looked at me and said, “Cara, you have been through hell and back physically. In the 30 years I have been in Obstrecis, I have never seen anything like what you have experienced following delivery. It is ok to be feeling these feelings. Now let’s get you on some Lexapro and see how you do!”
The rest is history, I take my medication daily, I am working on repairing my marriage, and am happier than I have ever been before as a mom to my beautiful son. I found that reaching out to women who can relate to me has been my saving grace. Nobody understands motherhood like a mother! I am honored to be a part of this community, and owe other warrior moms my gratitude.
Meet The Author:
My name is Cara, I am a licensed Mental Health Clinician and associate professor for one of our local colleges’ Substance Use Disorder Professionals program. I am a first time mom and obsessed with my baby boy, he makes me laugh all day long! I love any sort of taco, an Aperol Spritz, fashion, traveling, Beyonce, and a booty-shaking spin class! I have the best husband and friends a girl could ask for and have recently started exercising my creativity with my new Instagram account @postpart_of_me_ , in hopes to connect with other moms on this crazy journey!
To say the least, my second pregnancy was difficult. I will spare all the initial details but there were lots of tears, intense bleeding, feelings I had miscarried, and an unknown mass found on the baby’s abdomen that showed up on a regular ultrasound scan. It took weeks and a whole day at CHOP to figure out if this was serious or not, but all that waiting in between was filled with lots of anxiety, worry, tears, fear, and wondering if I will even have this little baby boy. Finally, at 28 weeks, lots of testing at CHOP, and extra ultrasounds to see my sweet boy, they told me I have a perfectly healthy baby boy and the mass found earlier was shrinking and benign.
So then, I started to get excited and felt extremely relieved. I felt confident I would have Brayden and the worry and anxiety began to melt away. Two boys were always my dream, and the thoughts of our family of four and what it would be like started to emerge. I finally started to decorate the room for Greggy and Brayden to share and agreed to a small baby shower to welcome him with immediate family and friends.
A side detail: I am type 1 diabetic, so I had appointments at the hospital typically 4x per week. Two of the four were non-stress tests. Thursday, May 31, 2019 I had one of my last non-stress tests at 36 weeks and I went into that appointment so hopeful they would admit me and induce this baby. BUT he passed with flying colors and was super active during the non-stress test and ultrasound after. Great news, I know, but I had that mom gut feeling I should stay to deliver this baby today.
Sunday. June 3, 2019: My husband and I were out shopping and out of nowhere, I felt strong contractions start. I told him, “We have to go, I am going into labor.” This was later in the day and my contractions, although intense and painful, (anyone ever experience back contractions?!) were not consistent. So, we went home, and I rested, made sure I had my bag packed, and laid in bed. I decided to wait until the contractions got closer together until going into the hospital. I ended up falling asleep.
The Moment I Will Never Forget
Monday June 4 2019: I had a 7:00 am non-stress test appointment, I woke up thinking “woah where did all the contractions go I can’t believe I fell asleep.” I got to the hospital for my appointment and sat in the chair. They put the pads on as usual, but today, there was NO heartbeat. I was rushed to an ultrasound only to stare at a screen with no movement just looking at my baby, still. The nurse ran out to get the high-risk doctor who came in to tell me “I am sorry Kaitlin but Brayden did not make it.” I will NEVER forget this moment. I was in shock, not even crying at this point because I don’t even think I realized what I was going through. I thought they were wrong. From this point on it was like my body went limp and I just went through the motions of the day. I was taken to an office to call my husband as I heard them talking about transporting me to labor and delivery to deliver my son, who wasn’t alive.
I remember the call with my husband, and I remember the nurses reaction. They acted confused and I heard chatter about what my husband was like because we both weren’t a sobbing mess. As if I called him to tell him I burnt the chicken, pick up dinner, please. I think back about that phone call every day. I remember telling him Brayden died. I remember him not understanding, I remember me trying to explain he had no heartbeat and wasn’t moving. Although I was answering his questions, I myself was skeptical and could not believe this was the truth. He told me he needed to go home first and make sure he had everything together for work (frowned upon by those at the hospital surrounding me, not your typical, something tragic happens and the love of your life rushes to the hospital). I could never ever be mad at his response, he needed time to process this and I think he cried more than me that day. It’s rare to see your husband break down and a big part of me felt like this was all my fault. I was supposed to deliver our healthy baby boy.
Delivering My Son, Brayden
Before I knew it, I was in labor and delivery. I laid in that bed being told I would deliver my son, not alive. I don’t know what I thought would happen, as if he’d magically come out, but processing going through a labor and delivery and him not being alive was terrifying to me.
I will never forget my OB walking into the room (who wasn’t working that day and I begged for the hospital to call him) I was shocked but felt so relieved he came. I am forever thankful for him and the support he gave me that day. The nurses I had were amazing, so kind, so supportive. They wrote me letters, made me a bracelet for him and a beautiful box to collect all his items from this day.
My husband arrived, and shortly after my mom, sister, and sister-in-law. It was hard to see everyone walk in so sad when my memories of family visiting at the hospital during labor was such an exciting time. As I was in labor, they had to ask me questions no parent EVER wants to answer: funeral arrangements. I never expected this. It’s only been a half hour and I am trying to process my baby not alive and now I had to know if I would bury or cremate him, I had to pick a funeral home, do I want a baptism tonight, and many other questions. In my head, I was still hopeful he would be alive so answering these questions were beyond difficult.
Labor began. It went as normal as it did with my first son. The most painfully difficult moment of my life was when it was time to push. Would he be alive, was this all a mistake? What would it be like to give birth to a baby who is dead? Every thought possible was rushing through my head. The delivery went similar to my first son: pushing, breathing, resting, pushing, and so forth. But then the words of “You’re almost there, he’s coming out.” But this was very different, because as he arrived, it was silent, he was born still. This is where I finally broke down. What do you do? I just gave birth to a dead baby. Do I hold him? Do I see him? How does this all work?
To hold your baby, not alive, is gut wrenching.
We decided to have a small baptism for Brayden and all our parents and siblings came. A priest was able to come to my hospital room and baptize Brayden. As difficult as this was, looking back I am so happy we decided on doing so, it’s one memory I have with him besides just the delivery. As family left, we chose to stay and spend it with Brayden. It was so strange, he was just lying there, dead, but I wanted any time I could get with him. I didn’t have to change him, I never heard him cry, we didn’t have to feed him every few hours. My husband and I pretended he was just sleeping for a long time. We couldn’t come to terms with what happened.
The following morning, we brought our son, G, to meet his brother Brayden. Too young to understand, but I live every day of my life trying to do small things to remember him or talk about him. I will cherish those pictures I took of us four forever.
Postpartum and Remembering Brayden
To be honest, what I went through that day was so painfully awful, but I had no idea what pain I would endure the following months. That day, although extremely difficult, mentally draining and exhausting, has bleed into every piece of my life. The hardest part was navigating the stages of grief afterwards, what people knew, what people thought of me, showing up to my business having to be “put together” and how I quickly realized no one knew how to talk to someone like me. The intense and severe postpartum depression is something I am still fighting through. I constantly cried. I held myself together all day and any second I had alone I would go into a downward spiral.
What many don’t know is that the birth of our daughter a year and one month later made my postpartum depression and anxiety so much worse. I am forever thankful for my husband and my mom who carried me through many months and supported me day in and day out. Many people supported me endlessly, but these two really knew the depths of how I was feeling inside. I fought for my life and happiness every day. It was hard to know I successfully gave birth to Gia, and I had feelings that I let Brayden down. I compared every milestone and holiday to Brayden, what he didn’t get to experience and what I didn’t get to experience with him. I always say Gia is smiling for two (herself and Brayden) it lights up the room. Every time she smiles at me, I take it as a sweet reminder Brayden is smiling down on us.
It has been almost 3 years of severe depression. My journey to happiness and feeling myself again is getting there. It has not been an easy road. I am blessed for my family. I will never stop sharing Brayden’s story and raising awareness. In my heart, we will always be a family of 5 and I always remember my sweet boy.
There are few moments in life that truly take your breath away: cradling your newborn baby in your arms for the first time is one of those moments. When my daughter was placed in my arms, my heart stopped. Four years later I can still vividly remember everything about that moment. After nine months of waiting, wondering and hoping, there she was. As I counted her tiny fingers and toes, and gazed into her big beautiful brown eyes, I knew nothing would ever be the same.
Struggling Through PPD
As much as I loved my new baby, I struggled to adjust to motherhood and to bond with her. One of my biggest regrets is that I didn’t enjoy those first few months with Ava. I struggled with postpartum depression and spent my days wishing for the newborn phase to be over; wishing for things to get easier; wishing for time to pass. Even though I know that my postpartum depression wasn’t my fault, I couldn’t help but feel guilty that I didn’t cherish those precious moments more. After I got my life back on track, I promised myself that next time I would enjoy it more: next time I would be a better mom. I put so much pressure on myself and “next time” that it made struggling to have another baby that much harder. I longed to be able to experience that first look moment again. My fertility journey the second time around was long and arduous. It was filled with so many tears, trials and disappointments until finally, we were able to conceive Max. Throughout my entire second pregnancy all I could think about was that magical moment when I would meet my baby for the first time, hold him in my arms, feel his skin on mine and know that he was real.
“Next time” and Unmet Expectations
Unfortunately, nothing went as planned. During a routine stretch and sweep at my 39-week appointment, my water broke. Since my body didn’t naturally start labour, I required Pitocin to get my contractions started. I remember feeling excited as I felt my contractions beginning; my husband and I even snapped a masked-selfie to document the moment. We talked and laughed, the nurses and doctors came in to periodically check in on my progress; everything was going smoothly… and then it wasn’t. When it came time to push I started having what is known as “labour shakes”. My body began shaking uncontrollably, my teeth were chattering, I felt dizzy, disoriented; I vomited. It was something I had never experienced before, and I was terrified. From here on it’s a bit of a blur: I remember pushing as hard as I could, but it didn’t seem to be enough. I remember the concerned look on the nurses faces as one of the machines I was attached to started to rapidly beep. The resident obstetrician who had been attending to me stepped aside and the obstetrician on call rushed in with the vacuum. I kept pushing and pushing, and when I looked over I saw that the room was now crowded with people. I panicked. What I didn’t know was that even though my baby was head down, he was on his side making it difficult for him to get out of the birth canal: he was stuck. Thankfully the doctor was able to wretch him out, but he wasn’t breathing. He was immediately passed over to the other people who had appeared in the room, who I later came to learn were the neonatal specialists.
“Where is my baby? What is going on? Is he okay?” I asked over and over again, but no one could give me a reassuring answer. I sat up and saw a team of people hunched over my baby, put him in some sort of clear incubation machine and roll him out the door. He was going to the NICU where he would have to stay until he stabilized. Max was born at 3:33am, but I was not able to see him until noon that day. When I saw him for the very first time my heart sank: my precious little boy was inside a clear plastic incubator, hooked up to beeping machines, an IV and a breathing tube. Seeing your child like this (as I am sure many other NICU parents would agree) is a feeling that is nearly impossible to put into words. Helpless, powerless and vulnerable don’t do it justice. As I reached through the hole in the side of the incubator and held his little hand for the first time he squeezed my finger. This was our first meeting: it was nothing at all like the moment I had hoped for. Research has shown that the first 60 minutes of a baby’s life are critical to a child’s growth and development. This is often called the “golden hour” because what happens in this first hour sets the stage for bonding between mother and child. We missed our golden hour. Max is a fighter. He made great progress in the NICU and was discharged after a few days. Our NICU experience was a rollercoaster of emotions: I was happy that my baby was doing well and growing stronger each day. I was grateful to the NICU staff for their amazing care and expertise. But I also felt deeply disappointed that I had been robbed of that special bonding moment with my son. I was devastated that his introduction to the world was so chaotic: that the first faces he saw were those of the frenzied medical staff and not me.
A Magical Moment, Just Delayed.
Today he is a very happy, and healthy boy who just loves, loves, loves his mama! When he snuggles close to me I wish I could stop time because I know that nobody in the world will ever love me as much as this little boy does right now. We may not have had that magical moment right away, but we have sure had many magical moments since.
Meet The Author
Amanda is a high school teacher and mama of two based in Toronto, Canada. She is passionate about bringing awareness to issues like postpartum depression and pregnancy loss, in the hopes that conversations about these topics can become more visible in the mainstream. Our ideas and expectations of motherhood come from the carefully curated images that are repeated over and over again in media. Through her no-holds-barred account Amanda hopes to provide a glimpse of true, uncensored motherhood with the Instagram world via @theuncensoredmommy.
