Postnatal Depression or Late-Stage Capitalism?

It might not be postnatal depression — just parenting in a system that’s set up to fail you.

After my son was born, I started working as a counsellor for new parents. It was a double whammy. I was learning about “top-tier” parenting from a clinical perspective while also living it firsthand. Every day, I tried to embody the perfect parent persona, hoping my kid wouldn’t need any mum-induced therapy down the track.

Through my own perfectionist lens, I started noticing some brutal truths about the perinatal period. Turns out, heaps of people struggle hard during these early years; mood swings, panic attacks, brain fog, a sudden drop-kick to motivation. In my work, I kept coming across research that confirmed what I was seeing on the ground: despite society’s obsession with painting postpartum as a jolly-holly time, the truth is, this gig is undeniably tough as f*ck.

One American study of 2,000 women found that parenting just one child is equivalent to working 98 hours a week — that’s two and a half full-time jobs. The last Aussie census showed 70% of domestic and child-rearing duties are still handled solely by women. And zooming out from the gendered fuckery of Australian parenting, another stat that stuck with me is this: up to 90% of first-time parents report intrusive thoughts — confirming risk factors around postnatal depression impact all genders.

Thus, a bumload of parents suffer in silence. Trapped in a thick fog of shame hovering around our collective brain haemorrhoids.

Before the baby arrives, we convince ourselves we’ll be different to the other parents. We’ll hold onto our identities, stay social, keep life in balance. For some of us, that’s just not possible. The truth is: parenting comes with mind-bending love and a genuine risk of burnout. It’s f*cking hard. Harder than anything I’ve done — and I’ve only got one tiny version of myself to look after.

The human species has raised kids in community for thousands of years. Shared caregiving, shared milk, shared poos, wees and grazed knees. These days, it’s the nuclear family model that dominates — or worse, solo caregiving. For many in Australia or Aotearoa New Zealand, that can mean raising kids in near isolation, especially with extended family spread out or absent altogether.

Even when there is childcare or whānau around, the pressure often falls on one person to juggle everything — milestones, feeds, sleep, career, healing, domestic life, and a dollop of soul-searching. We’re told to do “the inner work” for the sake of our families, and while therapy can be bloody brilliant, it’s not always the answer.

Sometimes the problem isn’t inside you. Sometimes it’s the outside world that’s let you down.

When I listen to parents, I don’t always hear clinical symptoms; I hear cries for help in a system designed to fail.

“Exhausted.” “Lonely.” “No money.” “No support.” “No sleep.” “No money.” (Again and again.)

When the same story pops up across suburbs and cultures, it starts to look less like personal failure and more like societal neglect. Maybe the depression and anxiety many of us experience aren’t just individual pathologies; they’re logical responses to isolation, economic stress, and the relentless grind of parenting without a village.

What do we do about this collective stress poo of parental burnout?

Here are two practical shifts that might help quiet the critic and remind you that you are, in fact, a f*cking awesome human being.

1. Challenge the idea that if you’re struggling, it’s because you’re not doing enough.

This one makes me fart. Most parents aren’t drowning because they’re spiritually lazy or haven’t read enough Brené Brown. In 2023, a University College London study found that loneliness was a major risk factor for perinatal depression. Nearly 90% of new mums or primary carers report feeling lonely.

Yet, saying “I’m lonely” out loud can feel like admitting some sort of shitty personal failure. It’s not. It’s human.

It’s especially hard during this season of life — your childless mates drift off, your parent pals are equally swamped, and suddenly it’s just you, your thoughts, and whatever song Ms Rachel is clippity clapping (thank god for her co-parenting).

We have to start affirming the reality back to ourselves. All of it. Not just the inner arsehole, but also the wise inner owl who says:

“This is fucking hard. I will get through this. I will be goddamn kind to myself as a first goddamn step.”

Start there.
Not with perfection.
Not with guilt.
Just with compassion and realness.

2. Stop hiding your feelings from your kid. Burnout guaranteed.

Model regulation, not perfection.

The number of people I’ve supported who feel the pressure to become zen monks of parenting is wild. I get it. I’m a millennial. We were raised by a generation of emotionally confused parents (no shade gen X and boomers, we’re all products of the one above). Now as parents, we over-correct.

“Oh well, my parents yelled and ignored me, so I must be calm at all times.”

It’s protective, but is it helpful? What we didn’t see growing up was big feelings expressed and repaired. Instead, we got silent treatments or shut doors. But our little nervous systems picked it all up — and so will our kids if we keep internalising every complex emotion, whilst expecting them to healthily express theirs.

Good Enough Parenting is a brilliant place to start. It focuses on connection, attunement, and emotional safety. In short: show your kid how to feel feelings, and go easy on yourself.

Next time you drop your patience, try something like:

“I’m sorry I shouted before. I was feeling big feelings and I used a scary voice. That wasn’t your fault. I’m practising staying calm when I’m upset. Are you okay? Do you want a cuddle or to tell me how you’re feeling?”
“I’m feeling really mad, but I’ll be okay soon.”
“I didn’t see what you wanted to show me before. I’m really sorry. You’re important to me. Can you show me again?”
“Can you get mama a choccy biscuit and a red wine?”*

A parent who can do this is a brave, incredible human.
You’re saying sorry. You’re taking ownership, and this wasn’t likely modelled to you. You’re fab.

This kind of emotional honesty is powerful. It teaches your kid resilience and empathy. It tells them big emotions don’t need to be feared — they can be felt, expressed, and repaired. And it teaches your own psyche the same thing. These tiny humans often teach the tiny humans within us — they crack us open in ways that can actually heal.

If you want to dive deeper, check out Raising Resilience by Tovah P. Klein Phd and this brilliant TED Talk on Repair.

Final plonk of thoughts:

If parenting feels impossible some days, it’s not just you.
It’s current day society. The isolation. The expectations stacked way too high. You’re raising a human during a housing crisis, a climate crisis, a childcare crisis — and probably on a dollop of sleep. I think you’re a pretty bad bitch all in all.

Fam, be kind to yourself. Vent if it helps. Talk to someone. A shrink, a mate, your dog. Find other parents who feel like a genuine vibe for you — they’re out there, between the scrunchy crunchy granola ones.

I also like to remind my own ass daily, that impermanence is real. This season will shift. New great things will arrive soon for you and your family. We’ll get there.

Go gently.
— Bree Baker.

*Jokes. Don’t do that haha.