Black mirror

Therapy by the numbers

Day 1

I always thought that having a baby would fix me. It's a foolish thought, I know, but when you've been carrying the weight of depression for as long as I have, you start grasping at anything that might bring light into the darkness. I grew up with it—the sadness, the heaviness. It's like a thread woven through the fabric of my family, binding us to some inescapable fate. My mother had it. So did her mother. Depression isn't something that just goes away; it lingers, festers, waiting for the right moment to tighten its grip.

When I found out I was pregnant, it felt like a sign. A surprise, yes, but maybe, just maybe, this was the miracle I needed. My husband and I hadn't been trying, but when that little glowing plus sign appeared on the test, something shifted inside me. I started to believe that this baby would give me purpose, that he would be the one thing to pull me out of the abyss. For the first time in years, I felt something close to hope.

But hope is a fragile thing.

The pregnancy was uneventful. Everything went as it should—no complications, no alarms. Just the steady, rhythmic growth of a new life inside me. I should have felt connected to him, to the tiny being who would soon be our son. But as the months passed, I started to feel a distance. A strange, hollow space where there should have been joy. I kept telling myself it was just hormones, that everything would change once he was born.

Jonah arrived on a rainy afternoon. The kind of day that makes the world feel smaller, more intimate. My husband held my hand, tears in his eyes, as the doctor placed our son in my arms. But as I looked down at this tiny, wriggling creature, I felt nothing. No rush of love, no overwhelming sense of awe. Just a cold, creeping numbness.

In the days that followed, I went through the motions. Feeding him, changing him, trying to soothe his cries. But it was like I was on autopilot, my body moving without my mind fully engaging. I'd stare at him for hours, searching his face for some flicker of recognition, some spark that would tell me, yes, this is my son. But he felt like a stranger, an intruder in a life that was supposed to be mine. I'd watch my husband with him, the way he'd cradle Jonah in his arms, and I'd feel a pang of something close to envy. Why could he feel so deeply when I felt nothing at all?

It wasn't long before everyone noticed. My husband, my friends, my family—they all saw the emptiness in my eyes, the way I'd drift off in the middle of conversations, lost in thoughts I couldn't even begin to explain. They'd ask me if I was okay, their voices tinged with concern, but I could never find the words to tell them what was really going on inside my head. How do you explain that you can't even recognize your own child? That you look at him and feel...nothing?

I wanted to get better. I really did. But how do you fix something that's been broken for so long? How do you mend a heart that's forgotten how to feel? I tried to convince myself that it was just the baby blues, that it would pass. But deep down, I knew this was something more. Something darker.

I kept waiting for something to change, for that miracle I'd hoped for to finally arrive. But it never did. All I was left with was the crushing realization that I was failing. Failing as a mother, failing as a wife, failing as a person. I was sinking, and there was nothing to grab onto, nothing to pull me back up.

So when Emma suggested the app, I didn't argue. What did I have to lose?

Day 10

Emma came by today. I hadn't seen her in a while, not since before Jonah was born. She took one look at me, at the mess I've become, and I could see the concern written all over her face. We sat down in the living room, Jonah asleep in his electric crib, and she told me about this app she's been using—TheraData. She said it's helped her with her anxiety, made her feel more in control of her life. "It might be good for you," she said, her voice gentle. "Just something to try, you know?"