Today is my little girl’s “siddur party.” After months of learning and reviewing her Hebrew reading skills, she finally can read and pray from a Hebrew siddur, a prayer book. It’s a special milestone for a 6-year-old girl. She stands on stage alongside her classmates, singing with pride. Face shining, confidence soaring, she does all the motions with gusto.

I watch her, seeing her vivaciousness, her joy, and I remember a tiny baby girl I did not want to hold. The memory is painful, and yet there is pride for where I am today and gratefulness for the little girl I love.

I hug her tight when she runs to me after the performance. We take pictures together and then she is off, running to join her friends. The picture of her joyous face stays with me as I get into my car and drive home. I allow the memories of those difficult days when she was born to surface.

I was diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder while pregnant with her older brother. I had been suffering silently for years, but it was only six weeks into the pregnancy when my PTSD exploded. I collapsed emotionally—the pain of the past haunting me, dragging me down into the depths of depression. I experienced painful flashbacks, memories that brought up more pain than I ever imagined I had inside me. Loss, grief and abuse that I had experienced hit me forcefully, taking away any and all joy in my life. My husband looked on, bewildered. He went into his own shell, unable to support me. I had no one to hold my hand. I dragged myself forward from day to day.

Therapy consumed my life, as I put all my energy into healing and finding peace. Somehow, between sessions, I kept up with basic housework. My goals consisted of providing food and clean clothing for my husband and 2-year-old son. The emotional care, love and laughter that every child needs to grow up healthy, I could not provide. There was too much pain, a heaviness that pulled me down.

I cried often. My little boy would look on sorrowfully and bring me a tissue, valiantly trying to make his Mommy happy. I would take the tissue and wipe my eyes while trying to reassure him that Mommy is OK, but whom was I fooling? My son was afraid. Mommy crying doesn’t give a child the emotional safety and stability he needs to grow up healthy. There was little I could do to change it. I was trapped in the prison of depression, powerless to get out and give him the love I wished I could provide.

After my son was born, I knew he would be my youngest. I wasn’t well enough to have more children. I could not possibly provide them with a healthy home. I continued caring for my family, doing what I could to provide a semblance of normalcy, even as I knew I was failing. I wished I could be free—to not have the burden of my son’s emotional health on my conscience. My emotional illness was to blame for damaging his childhood, wounding him forever.

I should have guessed I was pregnant once more when my emotional health took a turn for the worse. The rollercoaster created by the hormonal imbalance of pregnancy was the catalyst for the suicidal thoughts that filled me. I was desperate to escape the pain of my past trauma and the deep darkness of depression. Life was too much for me, and I came close to attempting suicide during that time period.

Being pregnant seemed like a cruel joke. I couldn’t understand why G‑d would do this to me. I needed to heal first, to have the tools to cope with pregnancy. How could He send another child down to the world to a home that could not give it what every child deserves? Were there not enough couples praying, nay, begging for just one child? I fully believed that I would only destroy this child. A child that would enter a harsh world and I would be responsible for his or her painful existence.

I cried constantly, the physical and emotional pain pulling me down. I struggled with the ghosts of my past, grieving for the losses I had gone through blindly while still a child. I bargained with G‑d, begging Him to heal me, to comfort me. This soul I was carrying was His, and I wanted something in return for bringing it down to the world. I held on to the hope that this child, whom I dreamed of naming Nechama, would provide the healing and comfort I so badly desired.

I went into labor on the third day of Chanukah. With every contraction, the fear of the impending birth grew. At half past 10 in the morning, a tiny little girl entered the world. Her shrill screams filled the room. Hands and feet flailing, the nurse held her up in the air. Terror engulfed me. This tiny little thing just born was relying on me, depending on me, to be there for her. To care for her and love her. And I could not do it. She was entering a dark world, full of pain, and I could not protect her.

I started crying heavily. The tears came in a torrent, and I did not try to stop them. All the pain of the last few hours came rushing out. Intense fear filled me as the final walls of denial fell down around me.

The nurse asked me if I wanted to hold the baby. I shook my head in the negative. No, I could not hold her and didn’t want to take her in my arms.

She put the baby in the bassinet and as my tears subsided, the baby began to cry. Her shrill voice grew louder, voicing her need to be held. I wanted to ignore her. I wanted the nurse to hold her, to comfort her. I couldn’t, wouldn’t do it. But no one picked her up. She cried on, and guiltily, I asked the nurse for the baby.

I held her, letting myself be taken by her sweet little face, her features so gentle, her being so pure.

My stay in the hospital was a small respite from the responsibilities I carried. I cried often. My doctor came to check in on me and arranged for me to see the resident psychiatrist. It was a perfunctory appointment. He could not possibly understand, in one session, the mix of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and postpartum depression I was experiencing.

The nurses were kind. One sweet nurse went out of her way to give me the care and attention I needed. Before I left the hospital, she brought me a baby hat. It was the same pink-and-blue striped hat that all the babies in the nursery received, except that she had artistically created a large flower on the front of the hat. I still have it, a reminder of the warmth and care shared with me during that very difficult period.

I went home with my little baby girl and life as I knew it resumed. Depression was par for the course, this time with even greater responsibility on my shoulders.

I shared with my husband my desire to name this child Nechama. Although we were naming our baby after his grandmother, he agreed to add the name. And so our little girl was named Nechama Leah, carrying the name of her great-grandmother alongside the prayer for comfort that I had bargained for with G‑d.

Nechama Leah is now 6 years old. She lights up my life with her easy, happy nature, spreading the comfort and joy I bargained for during the dark days of her pregnancy. I can’t help loving her, this child I did not want to hold.

Standing on stage among her classmates, she looks like your typical healthy and well-adjusted child. You would never know how much courage and faith has brought her here.

I have walked, nay trudged, climbed and stumbled along this journey—a journey that isn’t over. I still experience bouts of depression. I still struggle to be there for my children, to provide them with the safety they deserve. My marriage is no longer on the rocks, but the journey to a healthy relationship is ongoing. Somedays, the trek feels so arduous, and I want to give up. How much longer will I struggle just to be? The mountain seems impossible to scale.

Seeing my Nechama Leah at her siddur party makes me pause and look back at the long path I have traversed. My hard work has not been in vain. I sit with a feeling of gratefulness and pride. I let it fill me, allow it to take root.

King Solomon said: “A righteous man falls down seven times and gets up” (Proverbs 24:16). Our lives are all about putting in the effort to keep getting up from our struggles and challenges.

There will always be more mountains to climb; that is the essence of life. We climb, we fall and get up again. We keep looking forward, trying to reach higher. And every now and then, we need to look back and see how far we have come; To know just how much we are really capable of climbing.