A Mother’s Heartbeat

The room was dimly lit, with only the rhythmic beeping of the monitor breaking the silence. Tubes and wires crisscrossed the hospital bed where I lay, still and exhausted. My hand rested on my chest, almost instinctively, as if to remind myself that my heart was still beating.

Just hours earlier, I had been cradling my newborn, baby number two, in my arms. A new life had entered the world, bringing with it the usual chaos and joy of motherhood. But beneath the surface of celebration, something felt off. The breathlessness, the crushing fatigue, the sudden dizziness, it wasn't just postpartum exhaustion.

Then came the moment I collapsed.

Rushed to the ICCU, I faded in and out of consciousness, surrounded by the frenzied urgency of medical staff. I remembered hearing someone say "stroke," and the sheer terror of those words wrapped around me like ice.

I woke up, confused and fragile.

It wasn't a stroke, the doctors clarified later, but it had been close. My heart, they said, wasn’t functioning the way it should. The diagnosis came like a bolt from the blue : cardiomyopathy, a dangerous condition where the heart weakens.

A mother’s heart, quite literally, breaking under the weight of love, life, and labor.

The news was heavy. As I lay motionless in the silence, monitors tracking every heartbeat, I mourned not just my health, but the moments I was missing, first smiles, first cries, warm snuggles with my newborn.

But if motherhood had taught me anything, it was how to fight through pain with grace.

Bit by bit, day by day, I started reclaiming my strength. Through the exhaustion of physical therapy and the fear of every skipped heartbeat, I held on—for my sons, for myself.

I learned to advocate fiercely, to ask questions, to never ignore symptoms.

And today, I tell my story not for sympathy, but to raise awareness. Because no mother should have to choose between life and bringing life into the world. Because every heartbeat counts.

- Anita Sabidi, 2025