I’ve spent a good chunk of the last nine months trying to find the words for where I was. They come in flashes, slipping before I could hold them long enough to write them down. But, what lingered for me was this image. Postpartum depression felt to me like someone took a glass ornament (the glass ornament being me), a perfect glass ball, and shattered it on the ground. Through blur, fog, and delirium, had to piece it back together anew. The ornament is now a mosaic stained glass. Some pieces fit, some smaller than before, some are just gone.