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I was never the “get back on the horse” kind of person. In fact, I actually did fall off a horse when I was nine, at riding camp, no less…and I spent the rest of the summer learning how to groom the horses rather than ride them. I think that saying is stupid, to be perfectly honest. Who in their right mind would risk having the same bad experience twice?

After my son was born, I experienced an immediate and brutal bout of postpartum depression. I won’t bore you with the details, but it was the most scared I’d ever been – way beyond the fear I felt while being thrown from a galloping steed.  But pregnancy was one horse I did get back on, despite all logic telling me I should be one-and-done.

When my son was 15 months old, I got knocked up with my second child. It was planned, so I can’t use that as an excuse; I knew full well what I was getting myself into. And I think that is what saved me, this time around. With my first pregnancy, I was expecting sunshine/roses/immediate bonding/perfect exclusive breastfeeding /dropping all 35 pounds of pregnancy weight by the two-week well-baby visit.  I was certainly not expecting the black curtain of depression to thud down on me, mere minutes after giving birth. This time, I had nine months to prepare for the worst. I spoke to therapists, warned my OB about my history, and made my husband and friends swear they’d watch me like a hawk for any signs that the PPD was back.

Still, I worried. Postpartum depression wasn’t like lightning; it was actually more likely to strike twice. The best preparation in the world couldn’t stop it. I felt confident that I had a plan in place, if and when I did fall under that heavy black curtain again, but the thought of living through that again… it scared the hell out of me. I was mostly concerned for my son, who’d already had the first few months of his life marred by his mother’s emotional absence; he’d lived through that unscathed, but what would it do to my beautiful, sensitive two-year-old to see his mommy sad and disconnected?

The night before I went in for my daughter’s induction, I rocked my son to sleep. He was getting too big for the rocking chair, but it was a habit I was in no hurry to break. I still marveled at how attached we were to each other, and how good a mom he made me feel that I was, despite the fumblings of those first months. As he drifted off, I noticed tears dripping onto his hair – I hadn’t even realized I was crying. The tears were bittersweet.  I was still scared about what might happen after giving birth, but I also knew that nothing was forever. I could survive PPD if it happened again. More importantly, my child could survive PPD. It would be okay, no matter what.

I gave birth to my daughter around 3 p.m. the next day, and instead of darkness, I felt elation. The birth and first months were night and day from what I’d experienced with my son. I’d like to say that it was because of my excellent preparation, or the fact that I went in with absolutely no expectations or “goals” this time… because if I could say that, it would mean that all anybody had to do was follow those same rules and they’d be spared PPD. But I think I was just lucky. (Well, lucky and properly medicated –I hadn’t been on any antidepressants when my son was born, and this time I had stayed on a low dose of medication to prevent symptoms from returning. I do think that made an incredible difference.)

Still, I’d like to think that even if my story hadn’t had such an easy ending, it would have had a happy one. Being a PPD survivor means just that: you are a survivor. You have the strength to get through anything. It might be a bumpy ride, but this time, you’ll hang on a little tighter to the reigns; you’ll ride with more confidence. This is one horse worth getting back on.