I yearned to be a mother. Why did I feel nothing when my daughter was finally born?

I had presumed I would love her instantly – but a traumatic birth led to devastating numbness

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t wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was waiting for an overwhelming rush of love, but when I looked at my newborn baby what I felt was utter despair. No matter how much I smiled at her, crooned at her, fed, patted, caressed and changed her, I was absolutely numb.

I had yearned for her. Growing up in Italy, I was surrounded by images of perfect motherhood. Every rural crossroad has its tiny shrine to the Madonna and Child. I was certain by the end of my teens that I wanted to have at least one baby.

I knew almost nothing about real babies, of course. I didn’t have the kind of large nest of siblings and extended relations that many other people seemed to have in the 1960s; just one sister. My parents, both of whom had survived grim childhoods, tried for a third child but the unborn baby died, and my poor mother nearly did, too. From then on, human reproduction was associated only with tragedy.