I Didn’t Have a Difficult Baby. I Had a High-Needs Baby.

I couldn’t find the person who truly understood. So I’m becoming that person for someone else.

When I became a mum, I expected sleepless nights. I expected cluster feeding. I expected to feel overwhelmed. What I didn’t expect was to feel like I was slowly disappearing.

Like many first-time mums, I came home from the neonatal unit holding my beautiful baby and wondering whether I was doing anything right. Everyone tells you becoming a parent is hard. So when I was waking every 15 to 20 minutes, I told myself it was normal. When the cluster feeding felt never-ending, I told myself it was normal. But something inside me kept whispering: “This feels different.”

This felt different

It was the cry. Not just because it was loud, but because it was piercing. Every instinct in my body told me my baby wasn’t simply crying—she was distressed. Her tiny face would scrunch up, her whole body would tense, and she looked uncomfortable. Sometimes she looked like she was in pain. Nothing seemed to soothe her. Not feeding. Not rocking. Not walking. Not holding her. The crying didn’t last minutes. It lasted hours.

So I did what every parent is told to do. I asked for help. We saw the GP. We went to hospital. We kept asking questions. Again and again I heard the same words: “It’s probably just colic.” “It’s normal.” “Go home and come back in three months.”

At first, hearing the word colic almost felt like a relief. Finally, somebody had given us an answer. But it didn’t take long before I realised colic wasn’t really an answer at all. It was a label. Colic is a word often used when a baby cries a lot and there is no obvious cause. What I wish someone had explained is that babies described as having colic do not all have the same experience. The label may be the same, but what each family is living through can feel very different.

As a nurse, I understand why healthcare professionals use the term. As a mum, I desperately wanted to understand why my baby was crying.

Every time I heard “It’s normal” or “Come back in three months,” what I heard was: “Go home and keep suffering.”

I didn’t expect a miracle. I simply wanted someone to acknowledge how difficult this really was. I wanted someone to say, “I can see you’re struggling. Let’s keep working through this together.” Instead, I left appointments feeling unheard. I felt trapped. I felt like my baby was suffering and there was nothing I could do to help.

Life became smaller and smaller

I couldn’t eat properly. I couldn’t have a shower. I couldn’t watch a film. I dreaded the evenings because I knew what was coming. Eventually I stopped living. I was surviving.

Night after night, after my baby had finally fallen asleep in my arms, I searched for answers. I read research papers on Google Scholar. I wasn’t trying to become an expert. I was trying to find something—anything—that might help my baby.

We changed formula. We breastfed. We tried anti-colic drops. We massaged her tummy. We held her upright after feeds. We walked for miles. Bath time became one of the only moments of peace. Music sometimes distracted her just enough to give us both a few minutes to breathe. A white noise machine became one of the best gifts we ever received. Some things helped a little. Some didn’t. But when you’re surviving, five minutes of relief feels priceless.

Personal experience: These are things our family tried, not recommendations for every baby. Speak to your health visitor, GP or another qualified professional if you are worried about feeding, crying, reflux or sleep.

The night I broke

Then one night I broke. I called 111. I called one of my closest friends and cried because I didn’t know what to do anymore. I wanted someone to take my baby—not because I didn’t love her, but because I loved her so deeply and couldn’t bear watching her cry for another hour. At the same time, I couldn’t imagine handing her over because I genuinely believed nobody else would understand her the way I did.

One of the hardest parts wasn’t just the crying. It was when people tried to relate. “My baby had colic too.” “Mine cried a lot.” I know they meant well. They wanted me to feel less alone. But sometimes it made me feel even more isolated because there is a difference between having a baby who cries and raising a baby whose discomfort consumes your entire world. Unless you’ve lived that intensity, it’s incredibly difficult to understand what it does to you.

Eventually, the exhaustion became postnatal depression. Not because I didn’t love my daughter, but because I loved her so deeply and felt completely powerless to ease her pain. If exhaustion is swallowing your days too, our burnout support hub is a gentle place to start.

Finding our way forward

Things didn’t improve overnight. And they certainly didn’t improve just because time passed. It took hard work. It took persistence. It took asking more questions. It took advocating for our daughter. It took reading research. It took speaking to healthcare professionals. It took exploring different approaches safely and thoughtfully. Some things didn’t help. Some helped a little.

Eventually, when our daughter was around ten months old, we made the decision to work with a sleep consultant. Looking back, it was one of the best decisions we made. Not because it magically fixed everything overnight, but because it gave us structure, confidence and hope. Little by little, life began to change. Our daughter started sleeping for longer. She smiled more. She laughed more. Our home slowly became calmer. For the first time in a long time, I could begin to breathe again.

Looking back now, I don’t believe there was one miracle solution. I believe it was the combination of time, persistence, advocating for our daughter, finding the right professional support, and discovering the approaches that worked for our family.

That’s why I created The 1AM Club. Not because I have every answer. But because no parent should ever feel as alone as I did. Throughout this website I’ll share our story, what I’ve learned as both a nurse and a mum, the evidence I’ve explored, and the approaches that genuinely helped our family—always making it clear what comes from personal experience and what is supported by research.