Quiet Battles: How Public Health Gave Me My Voice Back

Because storytelling is a powerful way of communicating ideas, promoting learning and fostering empathy, the Kansas Health Institute (KHI) launched a storytelling contest earlier this year to amplify the value and impact of public health in Kansas. The following story is the first of two contest entries that are being recognized and published on KHI’s blog, Transforming Public Health for the 21st Century: Bridging Theory to Practice. The story has been edited minimally to maintain the author’s original language and intent.

Becoming a mother was meant to be one of the most joyful chapters of my life. I had done everything I could to prepare — read the books, attended birth webinars, listened closely to my own mother’s advice, and made sure every baby item was ready. As a public health student, I thought I understood the journey ahead: the risks, the symptoms, the mental and physical changes. But when I stepped out of the delivery room, I realized no amount of studying had truly prepared me for what came next.

This all began six months ago, right after my baby was born. At first, I was surrounded by love and support — family, friends, everything I thought I needed. But soon, a heavy fog settled in. I felt disconnected, exhausted, anxious and unlike myself. What I thought were just baby blues only got worse. I cried almost every day, struggled to sleep even when the baby did, and lost interest in the things I once loved. Looking in the mirror, I saw dark circles under my eyes, felt the weight of hair falling out, and heard the baby’s cries echoing in my head. I grew overly protective — afraid to let her out of my sight. As a first-time mom, I thought maybe this was normal. But deep down, I knew I was slowly falling apart.

I knew the term postpartum depression, but I never thought it would become part of my story. Accepting it was harder than I ever expected.

In my anxious state, I turned to Google for answers, searching everything from baby sleep patterns to crying spells and feeding issues. What started as a need for reassurance quickly became a habit that only added to my fears. One night, amid a search spiral, I came across a statistic from Kansas Connecting Communities that stopped me cold: about 1 in 7 women experience postpartum depression, and among those who felt they needed treatment, 16 percent didn’t receive it — most saying it felt too difficult or overwhelming. That number had once been just a line in a textbook. Now, it was my reality.

It became more personal when I found that 11.9 percent of Kansas mothers reported postpartum depressive symptoms in 2022, according to America’s Health Rankings. That’s nearly 1 in 9 new moms in our state. Among Medicaid-funded births and teen mothers in Kansas, rates of postpartum depression are significantly higher, according to data from the Health Resources and Services Administration.

It wasn’t until a visit from a community health nurse and doctor, both part of a county postpartum support program, that things began to shift. They didn’t just ask about my baby’s feeding schedule or weight. Instead, the nurse looked me in the eye and gently asked, “How are you doing?” That simple, compassionate question opened a floodgate. For the first time, I spoke honestly about how I was feeling. The doctor listened without judgment, offered reassurance and walked me through a postpartum mental health screening with care and patience.

From there, I was referred to Heartland Community Health Center, where I began counseling specifically tailored to maternal mental health. The team welcomed me with warmth and empathy. They assured me that I wasn’t broken — I was experiencing something real, common and treatable. Weekly sessions, offered both in person and virtually, gave me tools to manage my anxiety, reframe my thoughts and slowly rebuild my confidence as a mother.

Public health didn’t just offer me therapy. It gave me a network of support. I joined a local support group for new moms dealing with postpartum depression — another public health initiative. There, I met women who mirrored my story. I wasn’t alone anymore. I wasn’t weak. I was healing.

But the support didn’t stop at emotional care. Through a partnership between the local health department and state policymakers, I was enrolled in a maternal wellness program that offered nutritional guidance, physical therapy, lactation support and parenting workshops — all for free. These programs weren’t just services; they were lifelines created by people who understood that taking care of mothers is public health, too.

Programs like Kansas Connecting Communities (KCC) have made a measurable impact by training nearly 700 providers in perinatal behavioral health care. According to a report from KCC, these efforts aim to expand access to screenings, psychiatric consultations, and referrals — systemic improvements that are helping prevent maternal mental health crises before they begin.

Today, I’m still a mother, still a public health student, but now I’m also an advocate.

I share my story not because it’s easy to relive, but because it’s necessary. Too many women suffer in silence, believing they have to tough it out alone. I’m here to say: you don’t. Help exists. And thanks to the efforts of compassionate health professionals and forward-thinking policymakers, that help is growing.

Public health gave me more than therapy and resources. It gave me my voice back — and with it, the strength to help others find theirs.

About the Author

Bio: Isha Kothari is a Master of Public Health student at Kansas State University, specializing in infectious diseases and zoonosis. Born and raised in India, she earned her Bachelor of Dental Surgery in 2019 and practiced dentistry before moving to Lawrence, Kansas, in 2023. She has also worked as a dental assistant and is passionate about bridging clinical care and community health through storytelling, research, and advocacy for maternal and oral health.