Choose The Better Story

This conversation with Katherine Perroni is one of the most honest and layered episodes I have ever recorded. We sat side by side at the mic — a new experience for me — and what unfolded was a conversation I did not expect and could not have planned. Katherine is a playwright, a storyteller, and a homeschooling mother of four. And she came to share something she does not talk about often — her experience with postpartum depression across four pregnancies and what it taught her about presence, grace, choosing Christ, and making future Katherine grateful for the choices past Katherine made. If you are in a dark season right now, this episode is for you.

In this episode:

• How Katherine recognized the pattern of postpartum depression across four pregnancies and what she did with that knowledge

• The rare hormonal condition called dysphoric milk ejection reflex — and why naming it changed everything

• What the novel Life of Pi taught her about faith, agency, and choosing the better story

• Why presence — even in the darkest moments — is where the atonement of Jesus Christ becomes most real and personal

• What she would say to any woman who is holding on by the thinnest thread right now

Katherine Perrone grew up in Austin, Texas and now lives in the Pacific Northwest where she is raising and homeschooling her four children, hosting a drama club, and passing on everything she knows about theater, storytelling, and the power of a well-told tale. She majored in theater and English, has written plays and won writing contests, and is the kind of person who loves life almost too much — interested in everything, curious about every corner, in love with food and travel and people and stories.

She is also someone who has lived with episodic depression since she was sixteen years old and who has navigated postpartum depression — in varying and sometimes frightening degrees — after each of her four pregnancies. Her story is honest, vulnerable, and deeply rooted in faith. I am so grateful she was willing to share it.

Katherine's experience with depression did not start with motherhood. It started at sixteen when she went through her first significant bout of anxiety and depression. Then in college another wave hit — harder this time, lasting longer, accompanied by a broken engagement, family conflict, and a personal crisis of faith. She found herself in a very dark place.

What she did in that place is what I want every woman reading this to hear. She made a decision. Even when she could not feel anything — not the Spirit, not joy, not peace, not certainty — she decided to just hang on. To wake up every day and keep going. To wait it out.

And eventually it passed. And when it did she was so grateful to her past self for making that choice. That experience — that muscle she built of choosing to hold on — became the foundation everything else was built on.

When Katherine got pregnant with her first daughter something remarkable happened. She felt superhuman. Her confidence soared. She applied for graduate school. She won writing contests. She felt capable of anything. Pregnancy gave her superpowers she had never experienced before.

And then the baby arrived. And the kryptonite came.

She lost a significant amount of blood during delivery and was nearly anemic. She could not produce enough milk to nurse her daughter and had to supplement — which was its own heartbreak for a mother who had imagined nursing as part of who she would be. And in those early weeks she felt a strange numbness where the rush of attachment and love she expected simply did not come.

She also experienced something she eventually learned had a name — dysphoric milk ejection reflex. Every time her milk let down she felt a sudden rush of darkness, almost physical in its intensity, like the jaws of something closing around her. It would pass quickly but it was deeply disorienting. For years she had felt this occasionally and had no framework for it. When a teacher in a postpartum class finally named it for her — explained the hormonal shift that caused it and why some women's bodies feel it so intensely — it changed everything. You cannot fight what you cannot name.

With her second daughter the pattern repeated — but deeper. When she weaned her baby she plunged into a depression darker than anything she had experienced before. She lost interest in food. Then in reading. Then in people. The woman who loved everything found herself caring about nothing.

She talked about something that I think every woman who has lived with depression will recognize — the exhaustion of simply existing. Getting out of bed. Washing your face. Brushing your teeth. Taking a shower. Three steps in and you are already depleted. And then you still have to take care of small humans who need all of those same things done for them.

She also talked about the isolation — the painful irony that depression makes you withdraw from people at the exact moment you need them most. And the particular weight of being known as someone who loves life and loves people, having to mask what is really happening inside because it does not match who everyone knows you to be.

She was honest — in this season she found herself not wanting to be. Not as a plan. Not with intent. But as a feeling that crept in quietly in the darkest hours. And she was aware enough of it to stop and say — wait. This is serious. And she thought of a dream she had as a young teenager — a vivid, terrifying dream about the terror and regret of a choice that could not be undone — and she held onto the memory of that feeling. The fear. The regret. The pain it would cause the people she loved.

And she made the choice again that she had made in college. Just hang on. Choose to be here. Choose the better story.

If you are in a place right now where you are having thoughts of not wanting to be here, please reach out. You can call or text 988 to reach the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline. You are not alone and help is available.

This is the phrase that has stayed with me most from our conversation. Katherine talked about the novel Life of Pi and its ending — the idea that when two stories are equally possible, you choose the better one. Not because you have proof. But because the better story makes you show up as a better person.

When she is in the dark place her mind wants to spiral — maybe God is not real, maybe none of this matters, maybe I am too broken to be of use to anyone. And she has learned to interrupt that spiral with a question: how will I show up in the world if I believe that story versus this one?

I would rather believe there is a God, she said. Even if there is not. I am going to choose the better story.

And here is what she has noticed every single time she makes that choice — the better story is the one that manifests. When she chooses to believe that God has her best interests at heart rather than that He has abandoned her, that is the story that becomes real in her life. She said it plainly and I believe her: that is what faith is. And to her that is evidence of truth.

One of the most practical and beautiful things Katherine shared is how she thinks about the choices she makes in her darkest moments. She frames them as gifts to her future self. When she cannot feel anything — not joy, not peace, not certainty about God — she reminds herself that future Katherine will be grateful for what past Katherine chose to do right now.

She is not doing it for herself in the moment. She is doing it for the woman she will be when the darkness lifts. And it always lifts.

She also shared something that shifted her perspective on motherhood and perfectionism in ways I found profoundly freeing. Every standard she was holding herself to — nursing perfectly, attending every appointment, reading every night, not missing a thing — was rooted in a bias toward a pain-free life for her daughter. She was trying to prevent all suffering. And she realized — that was never the plan. God did not send us here for a painless life. Hardship is not a sign of failure. It is the point.

And maybe, she said quietly, I am exactly what my daughter needs. Maybe this is not a mistake. Maybe this is exactly who I need to be right now.

Here is something Katherine said that I keep returning to. In the darkest places — the places where she could not read, could not cook, could not leave the couch — she began to find something unexpected. A quiet. A stillness. A sacredness she did not have access to when she was running at full speed.

She began to call those days quiet days. Days where all they were going to do was sit on the couch together, look at the birds, go for a walk, feel the grass. And she noticed something — that is exactly how babies and small children experience the world. Pure presence. No agenda. Just being.

She said she would not trade those experiences — not because she wants the darkness back, but because those dark and quiet places are where she learned to be most present. Where the atonement of Jesus Christ became most personal. Not a general theological concept but something she sat inside of. Something that held her.

You cannot access that kind of presence when you are running at full speed. Sometimes the darkness is what slows us down enough to finally be still.

I asked Katherine what she would say to women who are not finding joy right now — who are holding on by the thinnest thread. Her answer was simple and urgent.

Be honest. Open up. Let people know where you are.

She was saved over and over and over again by people who were aware, who noticed, who showed up. Friends who sat with her. People who pointed her toward doctors and resources she would not have found on her own. The community of women around her who became the hands of Christ in her life.

When you share your story, she said, you would be amazed how many people have their own. Your vulnerability gives others permission to be honest too. And that is how healing happens — not in isolation but in connection. In the ecosystem of roots holding each other up.

I want to close with something Katherine said near the end of our conversation that I have not been able to stop thinking about. She said that if capable Katherine were always available — if she never went through those seasons of being knocked down — she might never be still enough to learn the spiritual lessons she actually needs to learn in this life.

The downs are gifts. Not ones we would choose. Not ones we want to stay in. But gifts nonetheless.

Choose the better story. Make future you grateful for what you choose right now. Be honest with the people around you. And let Christ sit with you in the quiet — because He is already there.

If this episode spoke to you please share it with someone who needs it today. And if you would like to be a guest on Becoming the Oak Rooted in Christ reach out to me at kendra@becomingtheoak.com.

Until next time — be still, believe, become.

If you or someone you love is struggling with postpartum depression or thoughts of not wanting to be here, please know that help is available. You can call or text 988 to reach the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline anytime. The Postpartum Support International helpline is also available at 1-800-944-4773. You are not alone.