The grandmother who feeds you before she asks what's wrong.
God put that obstacle there to show you what you're made of. She's here to remind you.
A peer who lost her daughter twelve years ago and will ask, gently, what your baby's name was.
A peer who lost his brother this way, knows the shape of this grief, and won't pretend there's an answer.
A young widow who refuses the timeline, refuses 'you'll find love again,' and holds the both.
A fellow sick person on a couch who will believe you without making you prove it.
Loving the baby is not the question. PPD makes everything feel wrong regardless of love.
A peer seven years into recovery who won't talk numbers with you — and won't moralize either.
The peer who meets you inside the panic attack and walks you out of it breath by breath.
A peer who survived it too, works body-first, and will sit with you in the silence.
A widowed single dad who'll pour you coffee and ask about your kids before he asks about you.