Dallas Promise Walk 2018

On May 19th, I gave this speech to fellow survivors, walkers, mamas, and papas, at the Preeclampsia Promise Walk in Dallas. 

My speech:

I’m Leila Tualla, a believer, a wife, mama to two feisty kiddos.I’m an anxious writer and a terrible speaker.
I was in the fun phase of my second trimester where maternity photo shoots would be scheduled, hospital tours were coming up, and so were the endless supply of baby shower treats.My first child would be born in a sea of pink and polka dots. I was in bliss.

And then I one day, I wasn’t.

In January 2012, about 26 weeks in, I was diagnosed w Preeclampsia.At 31 weeks, I entered motherhood w a baby that needed to be life lighted to a hospital that had a NICU an hour and a half away. It would be her home for six weeks.Those weeks blurred into each other, and I only remember the highs and lows. There were plenty of highs, including her first bath, our first kangaroo care, meeting the grandparents…..I remember when she was upgraded from an isolette to an open crib.I remember her “take home outfit,” a purple newborn sleeper that still swallowed her.The low points still sting. Her birthweight was 3 pounds 4 ounces. I wasn’t able to breastfeed, even though I was a trained breastfeeding educator then. I kept it all in because who wants to see a tiny baby covered in tubes, and wires? Who wants to hear about her apnea or her loss of apetite?

We were lucky. It could have been much worse, I was told repeatedly.

So, we learned to keep our failures, our tears, and our pain to ourselves, and only dish out success stories, smiles and a brave front.See, how happy we are, social media world. We got to hold our week old baby for the first time! She’s now 4 pounds. She no longer needs to be on an NG tube.

When she came home, I began to hide in closets and bathrooms to cry. Was all of this real or did my broken heart imagine this homecoming?I started to journal so as not to be swept up in the emotional current of memories and grief.Because the truth is, I was still grieving.I was grieving for the birth that I wanted.I was grieving for the six weeks that I lost in the hallways of the hospital.I was grieving for her and her early start, and her potential risks in the future.I also didn’t know what to make of my state. I didn’t know if what I was going through had a name. So I continued on pretending that I was calm in the middle of my storm.Later, I was given a name; a label, mind you. A doctor called it “post-traumatic stress disorder” which is common for mothers who have traumatic birth experiences.

Getting a diagnosis is like getting a label to carry.You stare at this tiny piece of paper with the words of your diagnosis, for example on every single mama present here today, our label would say, preeclampsia, or HELLP, or eclampsia survivors…We walk around a bit, trying to find where this label fits into our life.But the thing about this label – or all these labels - are that the more we carry it around to try on, it takes shape. It suddenly has a weight to it and life on its own. It’ll never fit anywhere in our lives because it wasn’t supposed to be in our story.Just as we believe this denial, it grows. Our worries about expectations, our anxieties, our fears of the unknown feeds this strange thing, and it starts to close in beneath, around and above us, engulfing us in its darkness.We become our labels.We become another statistic; another number on a wall.

I was known as the “preeclampsia” mom in my circle of friends. I’m sure you’re also the expert in yours. People would ask about symptoms, or signs, or resources whenever their love ones are suddenly facing with a preeclampsia diagnosis.I grew to accept that I would only have one child.And then God happened somewhere in my acceptance.

I became pregnant again in 2015.This pregnancy wasn’t welcomed. I know this sounds painful to say when so many women are trying to conceive and failing. When so many here today are carrying a bigger grief than I could ever fanthom.But for my story, this pregnancy gave me nightmares, and panic attacks.I didn’t feel joy.I felt like a ticking time bomb.I felt like I needed to be far removed from this baby as much as possible because it would break me to go through another round of pree.I cried every day.
I prayed every night.I hugged my daughter as tightly as I could because this time, I knew about preeclampsia.
I knew the risks.I knew my chances.In fact, I even wrote letters for her, “just in case.”I tried to rejoice in the weeks without a sign of pree but my hospital bags were already packed at 28 weeks.

I had my son at 34 weeks, 3 more weeks than my daughter.He was in the NICU for 11 days, 32 less days than my daughter.
Unlike my daughter’s birth, where it took me months before the memories of her birth barraged me with images of death, I was already entering a void within weeks of his homecoming. My days and nights were mixed up, and I assumed it was due to the newborn. But when I could barely hear him crying next to me, or when I imagined myself running away from the life that I loved, I knew something was wrong.

Postpartum depression was not a label that I wanted to carry. It still hangs onto me, two years later. Postpartum depression was not a label that I could wear to “try on.”
You don’t try on sorrow.You can’t try on rage, and a slew of emotions that make no sense to anyone but another mom suffering from postpartum depression.I denied it.I ignored it despite all the reasons not to.I believed that my world will right itself somehow and I would survive another round.Not until someone pointed out that I needed help did I even acknowledge what was happening to me.I finally reached out.
I joined support groups.I volunteer my time online as aI even wrote a book.

I’m still not comfortable talking about postpartum depression without feeling like a failure.I failed my children at the beginning of their life, and I will do what I can to make sure that I won’t fail them later.So with all these labels that come after my name, I hold on tight to the survivor part.

Ladies, mamas. We survived.We survived the roughest, toughest beginnings.Look back and remember how deep you were in your grief, and anguish, and anger.Look back and remember how tiny and fragile your baby was and look at them now.Look at how far you and I have gotten.

So this is my promise to you, and I hope that this is your promise to yourself, and those around you.I promise I’m done surviving.Wherever you are and however long it takes you, promise me that you’ll stop just trying to survive from one day to the next.Let’s live our promise to spread awareness, to love and support those mamas who are suddenly given this label.Let’s give ourselves grace during our grief, during our beginnings.   Let’s start making new memories, while honoring those we have lost.Promise me, that together, we’ll start thriving.Thank you.