This week's headlines feel personal, leaving me dark and unsettled.

The coverage of a family's unimaginable pain and suffering is brutal because it is relatable. Not the horrifying events that unfolded; postpartum psychosis is extremely rare, and this particular tragedy is rare within rare. That’s what makes it news.

But simply existing means that we’re mothers, in love with a mother, had mothers, know mothers. It tracks, then, that we have stories. And these stories shape us, shape our families.

Consuming the coverage and related conversations has awakened my hatred for a word. Why would I hate a word? 

Thirty years as a birth professional have left me blinking and feeling rageful when people drop the T-word: They.

“Didn’t they know? Why did they… What do they say you should do if…”

I've made a career of supporting families in the exact window these stories are about. Pregnancy. Birth. The first year. I've lived immersed in the lives of thousands of families as a birth and postpartum doula, peer counselor, volunteer, and advocate. Rarely has there been a they.

As a postpartum doula, my role is to nurture the entire family.

I'm in a home for four to eight hours a day, sometimes overnight, for weeks or months. If that sounds warm and fuzzy—it is! So often it’s cozy and loving and a joy to be a part of. I can report that most have had relatively smooth transitions. Sometimes it’s a little harder. Every now and then, it’s dark.

I'm immersed in a family's life for stretches most professionals never get. Any masks are guaranteed to come off. There's no pulling off "all good" in this situation. So when I say I've been in the room when things went wrong, I mean I lived it alongside the family. Day after day, I sit in the puddle of tears with the crying mom. I feel anxiety radiating off a couch. I watch despondency creep in. I’m there for bickering. I’m there for silence.

Back to the news: Listening to the discussion around this family's tragedy, my mind reaches back. Specific memories: colors, sounds, and smells come back. 

I've watched emotional wellness and relationships deteriorate in real time. Not reported to me after the fact — happening while I was in the room. And then again the next day. And the next.

Early in my career, I volunteered as state coordinator for Postpartum Support International. One day a letter arrived, written by a woman who had been incarcerated for infanticide. She was looking for connection, to be seen as a person. Her letters were always in colored pencil. I used them in my letters, too. I still think of her every time I color.

In that same role, I took calls from terrified family members watching someone they loved fall apart in slow motion.

As a doula, I've been in homes with moms who had attempted suicide.

Moms too depressed to care for themselves, let alone their children. Partners who had to leave work entirely. Not in the first weeks, but a year in, with no plan and no end in sight.

Almost never is there a they looking at the big picture, supervising and advising. 

One experience that I live with: A call from a mother who had a hard time after her first baby and was setting up resources, just in case. We talked for an hour and did just that. I wasn't hired as her doula, but months later I came across my notes and phoned just to check on her. She told me she'd had the baby. She had excellent in-home support. She was still suffering. I offered to layer on more care and reviewed resources.

Not long after that, I saw a fundraiser for her children. She had died by suicide.

It's a painful realization: even when things are set up to go as smoothly as possible, sometimes they still spin in a tragic direction.

Most moms who struggle during their postpartum experiences fake it till they make it. It’s hard, not a great memory, but it becomes something in their past.

Thankfully. Because I’ll say it again: there's no they out there. There's only whoever happens to be paying attention. So let's all pay attention.

They has to be we.

We can notice. Vote. Advocate. Support. Connect. Encourage. Offer Respite. Normalize.

We can tell the truth about our own stories instead of living two lives, one on social media and the real one we keep hidden.

None of that guarantees an outcome, but it's what every one of us has to offer. And needs to offer. Each of us. Right now. And every day after.

If you or someone you love is struggling with thoughts of suicide, the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline (call or text 988) and the Postpartum Support International Helpline (1-800-944-4773) are available any time.