COMMENTARY
When my daughter Kenzi was born, I thought I had already crossed my desert. And I should have felt nothing but gratitude.
After 20 years of endometriosis, after years of infertility, after standing before giants with nothing but the small stones of God’s promises, the Lord had healed my womb. I already had my son, Ian in my arms. Now my girl, Kenzi, was here. I could physically hold a miracle—again.
And yet, just weeks after her delivery, I found myself walking into a different kind of wilderness.
Scripture calls it “the valley of the shadow of death.” I can still remember how real that shadow felt. Postpartum depression pulled me into the darkest place I have ever been. There were many days when my mind nearly collapsed under the relentless swarm of suicidal thoughts. Days I questioned whether I had the strength to stay.
I share this on Mother’s Day, not because it’s easy, but because it’s necessary. And because I know I am not the only one. My heart breaks to know that too many sisters have walked through this desert, silent and alone, and haven’t had the chance to tell their story—many never will.
READ THE SPANISH VERSION OF CHRISTINE D’CLARIO’S LETTER HERE
Across the United States, maternal health outcomes are moving in the wrong direction. Maternal mortality has more than doubled since the early 1980s. We now hold the worst rate in the developed world. And the most devastating part: 87% of those deaths were preventable. Behind every statistic is a woman with a name, a family, a calling—a baby who still needs her arms and voice.
But numbers do not tell the whole story.
There is also a quiet suffering. The kind that does not make headlines. The mother who smiles at church but cries in the shower. The woman who holds her baby but feels disconnected from her soul. The exhaustion that goes beyond sleep and settles into the spirit.
That is a desert that few people talk about.
I survived by the mercy of my Heavenly Father—yes. But I did not walk out of that valley alone.
At my six-week postpartum appointment, my midwife saw what I could not say out loud. The pain, the fear, the anguish that lay beneath the surface of putting on a good face for everyone else. And she helped me. She gave me support, encouraged me to get faith-based therapy, and arms that refused to let me disappear into that valley of shadows.
So many women do not have that.
In many parts of our country—especially across rural America—access to maternal care continues to shrink. Hospitals have shuttered their labor and delivery units, and mothers have to travel long distances just for a prenatal visit. Others are sent home after giving birth and are never asked about their emotional or mental will-being. We celebrate the baby, but overlook the mother’s soul.
That has to change!
I am encouraged by efforts across the country—like initiatives from organizations such as Heartland Forward’s Healthy Moms, Healthy Babies America—that are working with realistic actionable plans to strengthen care for mothers before, during, and after birth. Conversations around postpartum support, mental health screenings, and community-based care are not just policy ideas—they are lifelines.
But lasting change will require more than systems. It will require people.
It will require pastors who are not afraid to talk about mental health from the pulpit. Families who know how to recognize when a mother is struggling. Communities that refuse to let women suffer in silence.
To governors, legislators, employers, and pastors: this is not a matter of left or right—it’s a matter of life. It’s about choosing to see the mothers walking through this desert. And the polls are clear in showing that any are awakening to the truth that we cannot leave them there. We are ready to act.
This is the heart behind the work of The Christine D’Clario Foundation—to help individuals and leaders walk through healing in every dimension: emotional, mental, spiritual, and physical. We believe true restoration happens when the whole person is seen, supported, and guided with compassion.
Because healing is not just about surviving the desert.
It’s about learning how to find God in it—and eventually, how to walk out of it.
That journey is deeply personal, but it should never be isolated.
In my book, Healing in the Desert: Finding Your Voice on the Journey from Brokenness to Freedom, I share what I wish I had known in those moments when the night felt endless: that your voice does not disappear in the wilderness. It is formed there. That even in the driest places, God is still present, still speaking, still restoring.
And to you, mama reading this—maybe with tears you haven’t shown anyone—I want you to hear this clearly:
You are not weak for struggling.
You are not failing because you feel overwhelmed.
You are not alone, even if it feels that way.
Deserts may try to convince you that you’ve been forgotten. But they are not the end of your story. Reach out. Tell someone the truth. Call your doctor. Text a friend. Let someone walk into that space with you.
God is not ashamed of your desert—and neither should you be, because He always brings “Healing in the Desert.”
This Mother’s Day, may we give one another something deeper than celebration. May we give the gift of building communities where no mama has to walk through the desert alone.
