04/23/2026
I can’t stop thinking about the mother in Calabria, Italy, who jumped from her balcony with her three small children. Two of those children—the youngest just four months old—did not survive their injuries. The third is still fighting for her life. And I can’t help but wonder: what life awaits her, carrying the weight of what happened that night?
The mental health of mothers is not just at a critical point—it is beyond it. The “village” is rare now, and when it exists, it must be built intentionally, brick by brick. What was once woven into our culture—simply “the way things worked”—has unraveled. Women are left isolated, alone, afraid, during one of the most vulnerable seasons of their lives: caring for a newborn while trying to heal themselves.
Their bodies are flooded with hormones, working to return to baseline. Their babies need them every two hours. They’re told to “sleep when the baby sleeps”—but when do they shower, eat, think, breathe? And beyond that, the household still needs tending. This is what the “village” once held. Others cared for the baby—aside from feeding—so the mother could rest. And just as importantly, they watched the mother. They made sure she was safe, supported, and cared for, so she could in turn care for her baby.
Did this woman have no village? It seems people knew something was wrong—she was “sotto cura,” under treatment for postpartum depression. But what does that really mean? Maybe weekly appointments with a therapist, psychiatrist, or OB/GYN. Possibly medication, which may or may not have been working. From the outside, it probably looked like she was getting help.
But this isn’t typical depression. It’s not just sadness. It can edge into something far more severe—intrusive thoughts, impulsive urges, relentless crying, the desire to disappear. The thought of escape in its most extreme form. She is overwhelmed, disoriented, and unable to understand how she got there—or how to find her way back.
I have heard countless women describe their postpartum experiences as profoundly lonely. They didn’t ask for help because they didn’t know what they needed. Their partners assumed they were just tired. Their families focused on the baby, missing the fear in her eyes, the emptiness in her movements. More than one mother has admitted to thoughts of opening a window and jumping—with her baby in her arms.
Partners do care. They show up, help where they can, and try to carry part of the load. But this isn’t a two-person job. And most don’t know what to look for, what questions to ask, or how to respond when the person they love is struggling with thoughts that feel foreign and frightening.
So what do we do?
We MUST rally around mothers.
Whether it’s their first child or their fourth, they need people. They need community, hands, time, and care—not just for the baby, but for them. Bring nourishing meals. Ask how she is—not just the baby. Do the laundry. Clean the house. Sit with her. Walk with her. Help her feel seen, valued, and held.
Strength may come from within, but it is sustained by those who stand beside us—who lift us when we cannot lift ourselves.
Let us hold mothers up.
They are raising our future.
