From the moment my son was born, fighting for breath, 10 weeks before his due date, the relief was immense and wonderful. Nobody wants their child to be born so prematurely, but after a pregnancy fraught with danger, getting as far as 30 weeks was something to celebrate. A diagnosis of placenta previa major – a serious obstetric complication – meant that by the time Emil was delivered via emergency C-section I’d had 14 haemorrhages, three blue-light ambulance rides, four blood transfusions, five weeks in hospital and two months of bed rest. I’d also been told that loss of life – both mine and my unborn child’s – was a very possible outcome. Thankfully, this is all now history. My baby and I are both safe and happy and living well. We won the battle against that nasty placenta.

Days after bringing Emil home from special care I felt it – a spike of fear that punctuated my jubilation. Suddenly, it felt like danger was everywhere. I became jittery and breathless if I heard a distant ambulance siren. I couldn’t glance at medical pamphlets in the GP’s waiting room because twisted thoughts convinced me that if I read about an illness I’d jinx myself and then develop that illness. I worried constantly about Emil. I almost didn’t dare let myself love him, because I was so frightened of losing him. I began to get flashbacks: sudden, all-consuming memory remakes of the terrifying, lonely, painful bits of the pregnancy. Night after night, I woke up panicking that I was bleeding to death, actually checking the bed sheets, because the feeling was so real.

I knew right away it was post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and decided to try to get help. News of the NHS demise was everywhere, so I was sceptical about what was available. I assumed, at best, that I might be placed on a six-month waiting list. I looked into private therapy, but my finances couldn’t stretch to it. In the end, feeling desperate, I spoke to my GP. He gave me a phone number for my local mental health service. I called, not expecting much, and was invited to discuss my circumstances with a trainee psychologist. She suggested I might like to join a PTSD group therapy session. I said that I couldn’t see myself sharing visceral stories of blood gushing from my vagina with a bunch of strangers. A week later, to my surprise, a senior therapist phoned and explained that she’d been discussing my case and thought she could help. She offered one-to-one weekly sessions starting immediately. What was the catch? No catch. What would it cost? Nothing. Um, could I bring my two-month-old baby? Of course.

What followed were 10 sessions of intensive but incredible cognitive behavioural therapy. Thanks to the postcode lottery, it turned out I was living in a London borough that was keen on promoting talking therapy solutions.

My therapist was lovely, professional and wise. She welcomed Emil, who would alternately sleep, feed, yell or wriggle his way through the hour. She had a knack of sensing when he and I had had enough. She made me laugh, made me cry, but above all she walked me hand in hand through my trauma and taught me to file it properly in my memory. Sessions started to feel like a space where I could park all my angst and upset, then for the rest of the week, get on with my life. As a working mother of three, that breathing space was invaluable. No more flashbacks. No more crazy paranoia. No more guilt.

David Cameron has recently pledged to expand NHS services across the country, promising support to every woman who needs it. I welcome any government initiative to increase maternal mental health provision, since it’s been woefully lacking so far. When I shared my own story with friends, it became apparent that I was unusual in seeking help. One woman told me it was “brave”. To me it wasn’t brave, it was logical. Why suffer? It upset me to hear that so many mothers had endured postnatal depression, anxiety and PTSD but hadn’t considered therapeutic support. They were either too embarrassed (new mothers are supposed to be radiant and joyful, right?), didn’t know who or what to ask, or simply didn’t feel they could spare time away from their baby. I am so thankful that I was able to bring Emil to my sessions, and that he was welcomed by my therapist, despite his disruptive charm. Otherwise I, too, might not have gone the distance.

Ten months on and I’m still revelling in my therapy high. I see life differently, not just in relation to my awful pregnancy, but in other ways too. I don’t worry about the little things. I sleep better, I feel more focused, more content, more empowered. The ultimate reward, however, is that I am now free to love and enjoy my son in the way he deserves. Happy, calm and confident, and I feel I’m raising a happy, calm, confident child.

So, David Cameron, don’t just promise specialist psychological postnatal support. Do it. Invest in the emotional wellbeing of mothers, because they are the key to raising a sound society.