We brought our baby girl home to our new house, with the help of my in-laws who stayed for two weeks to help us settle in. After they left, life began to find a rhythm—or so we thought.

One night, about three weeks postpartum, I felt unusually tired after feeding the baby and went to bed early. I woke later with what I assumed was a sinus headache, took something for it, and went back to sleep. A short while later, I woke again with a searing, unbearable headache. I called for my husband. He sat with me, trying to comfort me, and I eventually fell asleep again.

The next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital bed, strapped down. A nurse was sitting beside me, which I recognized from my limited medical background as a sign I had been critically ill. When I woke again, another day had passed. My husband and our pastor were sitting beside me, and they gently explained what had happened.

That morning, I had begun having seizures. My husband called 911, and I seized all the way to the hospital. When I arrived, my blood pressure was 205/120. The doctors quickly ordered a CT scan, spinal tap, bloodwork, and administered IV medications to try to stabilize me.

At three weeks postpartum, no one expected eclampsia—but that’s what it was. My OB was stunned. She eventually wrote a journal article about my case: rare, delayed-onset, postpartum eclampsia.

I survived—but life was never quite the same. I’ve been hypertensive ever since. Without medication, my blood pressure still spikes dangerously high. But I’m here, and I got to raise my babies—including that baby girl.

Now, she’s expecting a daughter of her own. Her feet are starting to swell, and her blood pressure is creeping upward. But this time, we’re watching closely. My story became her early warning sign. She’s being carefully monitored—and I hope it makes all the difference.