Your partner has postpartum depression,
and you're probably on the verge of a breakdown yourself.
In the last episode, I talked about the neuroscience of postpartum depression—
the hormonal cliff, brain remodeling, and the shame circuit.
All three layers crashing down at once.
That episode was written for mothers.
Today's episode
is for the fathers.
The person who comes home from work every day,
never knowing what kind of door they are about to open.
Hello,
everyone.
I'm Wang Lijie.
The inspiration for this video
came from a viewer's comment.
He said his partner was diagnosed with severe depression six months after giving birth,
along with moderate anxiety.
She often feels suicidal,
suffers from insomnia,
headaches,
diarrhea,
and emotional breakdowns involving heavy crying.
The child was sent to the grandparents' house,
and their relationship is extremely strained.
His message was very short,
but I read it many times.
Because beneath those restrained words,
I saw another person suffocating.
He didn't say, "I can't take it anymore either,"
but he didn't need to.
Today, I want to talk about a topic that almost no one addresses:
In a family struggling with postpartum depression,
what is the person who is *not* the patient
actually going through?
First, let's look at some data.
A large-scale meta-analysis covering multiple countries
published in 2021 showed that
when a mother has postpartum depression,
the probability of her partner developing depressive symptoms is as high as 50%.
Half.
Please note,
this isn't just "feeling a bit sad."
This is depression that meets clinical diagnostic criteria.
Even if the mother doesn't have postpartum depression,
the average probability of a father developing depression three to six months postpartum
is still around 25%.
This number far exceeds most people's awareness.
Yet, almost no one is paying attention to this group.
All parenting books, all postpartum guides, and all public discourse
focus their attention on the mother and the child.
The partner's role is clearly defined:
You are the supporter.
Your task is to be strong.
Your needs come last.
This isn't a minor issue;
it's a structural blind spot.
Why do partners also break down?
Because you aren't just a bystander watching her depression from the sidelines.
You are standing right in the eye of the storm.
I'll break down what you're experiencing into three layers.
First layer:
Your nervous system is being drowned by her pain.
The human brain has something called mirror neurons.
Their function is very primitive.
When you see another person in pain,
your brain automatically simulates that pain internally.
This isn't being dramatic,
nor is it being oversensitive.
It's a built-in feature of your nervous system.
When you face a person steeped in despair every day,
watching her cry,
listening to her say life is meaningless,
watching her refuse to hold the baby,
and seeing her wither away day by day,
what are your mirror neurons doing?
They are constantly receiving, copying, and simulating her pain.
On a physical level, your brain
is being continuously washed over by her emotions.
At the same time,
your HPA axis
which is the system in your brain responsible for stress response,
has been activated for far too long.
What are the consequences of chronic stress?
Constantly high cortisol levels,
declining sleep quality,
scattered attention,
weakened immunity,
and poor emotional regulation.
You start becoming irritable,
indifferent,
and thinking things you wouldn't dare say out loud.
It's not that you've changed;
it's that your nervous system has been overloaded for so long
that it's starting to malfunction.
The second layer:
You're experiencing what's called the "pain of incompetence."
Men have a very typical reaction pattern when facing a partner's pain:
Problem-solving.
You try every way possible to make her feel better.
You take her to the doctor,
you research information for her,
you adjust your work schedule to be with her,
you carefully control your tone of voice,
and you list a hundred ways to make her happy.
But postpartum depression isn't something you can fix.
You did everything you could,
yet she's still crying.
You said everything you could,
yet she still says life is meaningless.
You give it your all,
but nothing changes.
This sense of powerlessness
is a deeper kind of pain than mere exhaustion.
It strikes at your fundamental perception of your role.
You are her partner,
you should protect her,
but you find you can't.
Many men begin to show two typical defensive reactions at this point.
One is anger.
You think to yourself,
"I've already done so much,
why are you still like this?"
As soon as that thought surfaces,
it's immediately followed by intense guilt.
You know she's sick,
you know you shouldn't be angry,
but that anger is uncontrollable.
The other is withdrawal.
You start working late,
you become silent,
you sit in your car for ten extra minutes after getting home.
It's not that you don't love her anymore;
it's your system automatically switching to avoidance mode.
This is a basic human instinct when facing an unsolvable threat:
Fight or flight.
Neither reaction is your fault.
They are automatic protection mechanisms when your nervous system is depleted.
But there's a particularly heart-wrenching paradox here.
The angrier you get,
the more she feels like a burden.
The more you withdraw,
the more she feels abandoned.
And the more abandoned she feels,
the deeper her depression becomes.
The deeper her depression,
the more powerless you feel,
and the more you want to escape.
Without realizing it,
the two of you enter a spiral of mutual hurt.
Not because of a lack of love,
but precisely because you care too much.
Yet no one knows how to express care in such an extreme state.
Those unspoken words in your heart,
I can guess some:
"I'm exhausted too,
but no one asks about me."
"I don't know what you actually need.
You don't want anything, but you're not satisfied with anything."
"I feel like it's not that you don't want to get better;
it's that you don't want me to have a good life."
You feel guilty for even thinking that last sentence.
But it has crossed your mind.
Thinking it doesn't mean you're a bad person.
It means your system is overloading.
Layer three.
No one allows you to say, "I can't do this anymore either."
Look at your support system around you.
Your parents are busy taking care of the baby.
Her parents might be blaming you for not caring for her well enough.
Your friends don't know how to talk to you about it.
Your colleagues have no idea what you're going through at home.
You go online to search for how to help a partner with postpartum depression.
And what do the results say?
"Be with her more," "Don't try to use logic with her,"
"Give her space," "Do the housework," "Look after the baby."
Every piece of advice tells you...
You need to do more.
Not a single one asks,
"Are you okay?"
You are defaulted into a role that doesn't need care.
And the definition of this role itself...
...is part of the problem.
Because when you are defined as the "supporter,"
your pain becomes something that isn't allowed to exist.
You can't say you're tired,
because she's more tired.
You can't break down,
because she's already broken.
You can't say you need help,
because everyone's attention is on her and the baby.
Your pain has no name,
no place,
and no outlet.
And you carry an extra layer of baggage:
you feel entitled to no suffering at all.
She's the one with the hormonal cliff.
She's the one whose brain is being rewired.
She's the one who can't even get a full night's sleep.
Who are you?
You're just the one standing by, watching.
What right do you have to be tired?
This thought that "my pain isn't valid enough"
makes you swallow all your emotions.
Swallowing it for a day is fine.
A week is fine.
But what about for months?
Emotions don't disappear just because you deny them.
They transform.
They become unexplained irritability.
They become weariness toward your work.
They become that hollow feeling when you wake up at night.
They become that indescribable fear when you look at your child.
Do you know what this state is called in psychology?
It's called being an "Invisible Casualty."
You're standing at the scene of the accident, bleeding,
but because there's someone more severely injured next to you,
no one sees that you're bleeding too.
Alright.
Having said all that,
you might be wondering,
"So what should I do?"
I won't give you a twelve-step action plan.
Every family's situation is different.
There's no universal manual.
But there are a few things
that I think are most important after digesting a lot of research.
First,
acknowledge that you are hurting too.
This isn't showing weakness;
it's an accurate self-assessment.
When an airplane's oxygen masks drop,
you must put your own on first
before you can help her.
If your own oxygen runs out,
both of you will suffocate.
You have the right to be exhausted,
the right to be confused,
the right to occasionally want to run away.
Acknowledging these feelings
doesn't make you a bad partner.
On the contrary,
someone who dares to admit they are also suffering
is more likely to maintain long-term stamina.
If you are suffering from insomnia, irritability, or chronic low mood,
go see a doctor.
Not for her,
but for yourself.
A partner's depression is depression, too.
It is just as real as hers,
and needs to be taken just as seriously.
Second,
stop trying to "fix" her.
This may sound counterintuitive,
but it might be the most important thing you learn.
Recovery from postpartum depression is not linear.
It's not a process where doing three things makes her all better.
Some days she'll suddenly feel better,
only to fall back down the next day.
Even if you do everything right,
her state might not change at all.
Your job is not to make her well.
Your job is to stay there
while she is unwell.
The difference between these two is massive.
The former makes you a rescuer,
who falls apart when they fail.
The latter makes you an anchor.
You don't need to solve the problem;
you just need to not disappear.
What does it mean to not disappear?
It doesn't mean hovering over her 24/7.
It's sitting beside her when she cries instead of walking away.
It's waiting before responding to her hurtful words.
It's not panicking when she says she doesn't want to live,
and not rushing to argue.
You just say,
"I hear you."
"I'm here."
Co-regulation.
I mentioned this concept in the last episode.
Your calm breathing,
your stable presence,
and your non-judgmental gaze—
these are the medicine her nervous system needs most right now.
You don't need to say anything clever.
Your presence itself is a physiological intervention.
Third,
build your own support system.
You can't be her only anchor.
An anchor connects a ship,
but if the anchor itself becomes loose,
the ship is lost.
Find an outlet.
It could be a friend,
a brother,
or a colleague.
You don't need to detail your struggles;
you just need a space
to drop the role of "supporter"
and just be yourself.
If you can't find the right person,
professional counseling isn't just for the patient.
Caregiver counseling is a mature service in many places.
There's no shame in it;
it's a smart decision.
Fourth,
and the hardest one,
is to lower your expectations of a "normal life."
You might have a picture in your mind:
A small family, a newborn, bliss, and a perfect social media life.
Reality has torn that picture apart.
You feel like your life is off the rails,
and you don't know when it will end.
You wonder,
"Is this the life I really wanted?"
Here is a timeframe for reference:
Most postpartum depression,
given professional treatment,
improves significantly within six months to a year.
Some even sooner.
Especially for those with early intervention.
This isn't a permanent state,
but it is a long process.
There will be relapses along the way;
times when you think things are better, only to fall back down.
During this period,
your life won't be "normal."
Accepting this
isn't giving up;
it's being strategically pragmatic.
Your energy is finite.
You can't simultaneously be a perfect partner, a perfect father,
a perfect employee, and take care of your own mental health.
Giving 100% to everything is impossible,
and it's not necessary.
Focusing your limited resources on three key things is enough:
The baby is healthy,
she is receiving professional treatment,
and you haven't broken down yourself.
If you manage these three,
you are already doing exceptionally well.
I'm not just comforting you;
I'm stating a fact.
Those who can manage these three things under such intense pressure
are already in the minority.
Fifth,
there are things you should never say:"
'Other moms have gone through this too.'"
Don't say it.
This isn't encouragement;
it's a stab at her most painful spot."
'Think about the baby.'"
Don't say it.
It's not that she doesn't care about the baby,
she just lacks the strength to think about it.
Asking a drowning person to enjoy the scenery on the shore
isn't encouragement;
it's cruelty."
'You're just overthinking it.'"
Don't say it.
Depression isn't overthinking.
Depression is her brain chemistry out of balance.
It's like a computer OS crashing;
you can't just tell the computer 'don't crash.'"
'What exactly do you want me to do?!'"
You may have shouted this in your head a hundred times.
I understand.
But the moment you say it out loud,
what she hears isn't your helplessness,
but your resentment.
Try saying it differently:"
'I want to help,
but I don't know how.
Can you tell me?'"
The same request,
but with a completely different effect.
There's also a more subtle kind of harm:
praise that you think is helpful."
'Look, you seem much better today!'"
You think it's validation,
but she hears it as pressure.
Because she knows she might fall back down tomorrow,
and your expectations make that fall even more painful.
She will think,
'If I'm not doing well tomorrow,
will he be disappointed?'
The best words
are often the simplest:"
'How are you today?'"
Without judgment,
without expectation.
Just an open, calm inquiry.
Give her space to be okay,
and space to not be okay.
At this point,
I want to do something I don't often do on this channel.
I want to say a few words directly to the viewer who left that comment.
Brother,
you haven't given up after getting this far.
That is already truly remarkable.
The fact that you're willing to ask this publicly
shows that you're still looking for a way out.
Because you're still trying,
it means your ship is still sailing.
Postpartum depression is a storm with an end.
You two aren't dying a slow death together;
you are traversing a tunnel together.
The tunnel is dark,
but it has an exit.
You don't need to be a perfect partner;
you just need to be that steady candle
during her darkest night.
You don't have to light up the whole room;
it's enough just to keep the flame from going out.
These two companion episodes—
one for her at the center of the storm,
and one for you standing by her side.
If possible,
I hope you can watch them with each other.
Watch the previous episode
to feel what her brain is going through.
Let her watch this one
so she knows what you are enduring, too.
Both of you carry your own pain,
guessing what the other is thinking,
misunderstanding each other's silence and outbursts.
If there is a moment
where you both see each other's wounds,
that moment itself is the start of healing.
Not because the pain vanishes once seen,
but because once it's recognized,
you are no longer suffering alone.
If you are also supporting a partner with postpartum depression,
what would you like to say?
How did you get through it?
Or maybe you're still struggling.
Let me know in the comments.
I really want to hear your voices this time.
I'm Wang Lijie.
See you next time.