Why do I panic when I hear the baby monitor?

Question from Amani J., 34, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. Mama to 3-month-old baby girl Zara.

Danielle is a new mom recovering from an unexpected C-section and battling sleep deprivation. She stays home full-time while her partner works long shifts. She wants to feel confident in her role — but lately, even the softest sound from the monitor sends a jolt through her system. She’s learning that postpartum anxiety doesn’t always look like worry — sometimes it’s just feeling wired, afraid, and alone.

Mama, 

I used to stare at that little screen like it held a bomb.
My whole body would tense — even when it was quiet.
Especially when it was quiet.

The static. The hum.
That one second too long of silence before a cry — it felt like a countdown.

I remember sitting on the edge of the bed, holding my breath, waiting to be “on” again.
To feed. To bounce. To perform.

I loved my babies.
But I didn’t love how the monitor became a symbol of pressure — like I could never fully exhale.

It’s hard to talk about this kind of postpartum anxiety.
Because it doesn’t always look like fear.
Sometimes it looks like tension in your jaw or flinching at a baby’s whimper.
Sometimes it’s being afraid of silence.
Afraid of the next cry. Afraid you won’t be enough when it comes.

I used to feel ashamed of how jumpy I was.
But here’s what I know now:
Your nervous system is trying to protect you —even when it overreacts.
Even when it’s wired too tightly from too little sleep and too much pressure.

The first time I felt safe enough to put the monitor down for a nap, I cried.
Not because I didn’t care — but because I finally cared about myself too.

That’s when I started doing little things to come back to my body.
Postpartum self-care wasn’t spa days.
It was breathing deeply when I heard a cry. Loosening my shoulders.
Wearing a maternity bra that didn’t make me feel caged.
Stretching. Hydrating. Asking for help.

Not fixing the anxiety overnight — but softening around it.

If you feel this way too, I want you to know:
You’re not broken.
You’re not overreacting.
You’re not a bad mom.

You’re a human.
Caring too much.
On too little sleep.

You deserve rest, regulation, and relief —not more guilt.

Love,
Lina P.