Della D.

Della D. Weiss

◆ Life’s Random Inventory

For a long time, I have held onto the story of my own near-brush with death—a tragedy narrowly avoided during my mother’s severe struggle with postpartum depression. Looking back, it was more than likely postpartum psychosis, though I am piecing this together through my own memories as a child of nine going on ten, alongside the recalled fragments of my family. I always planned to share this when the time felt right. Now, that time has come.

Lately, whenever I see headlines featuring photos of Lindsay Clancy at trial, a chilling realization washes over me. I look at those pictures and think about how easily my sisters and I could have suffered the same fate as Lindsay’s children. Our mother Sandra could have easily been another headline, another statistic of postpartum illness taking a deadly turn. When I look at Lindsay, I picture my now-deceased mother. I am forced to imagine what it would have looked like if she had acted on the dark thoughts that consumed her. I know that so many others, especially mothers, can relate to this profound mental health struggle, and that is why it is so vital to bring these stories out of the shadows.

The Day Of: 

I honestly couldn’t tell you where my father, Mickey, was that day. The only thing I know for certain is that he was not home. In fact, he wasn’t there when we finally returned after being separated from our mother—who had just been hospitalized for a mental health crisis.

It was a Saturday morning. I remember that distinctly because my grandparents owned a flea market in our hometown that was only open on Fridays and Saturdays, and our grandma was the one who ultimately picked us up. But let’s take a step back.

The first thing I remember is my older sister, Blake, frantically running into my room holding the little ones, Chloe and Faith. She immediately shuffled us into my closet. My bedroom had been moved to the basement, an area that was originally my dad’s office space where he used to store his hunting gun collection. He had eventually sold the collection for family money—something he never let us forget—meaning my closet was actually his old, converted gun closet. Looking back, it was an absolute blessing that his gun collection wasn’t there anymore. Otherwise, we would have been completely surrounded by deadly weapons while hiding out from a homicidal and suicidal mother.

When Blake walked in, she had a look on her face that I had never seen before. Our parents had fought prior to this, but it wasn’t how normal parents fight. Growing up alongside severe clinical depression meant holes punched in walls, suicide attempts, and self-harm. Needless to say, for Blake to look that terrified, I knew something was profoundly wrong.

Blake locked us in the closet right next to the water heater. I sat cross-legged with Faith in my arms and lap, while Chloe huddled next to me. At this point, I knew that our mom had threatened to kill us. As a true-crime-loving family, my mind raced; I didn’t know if the threat was real or not. Either way, I kept the babies perfectly still and quiet, whispering baby talk and humming to them. Meanwhile, Blake ran back upstairs to take a quick shower and gather some things so we could make our “escape” before our mom could refocus on finding us.

To be honest, I don’t know where our mom went during those moments. I just know she wasn’t looking for us. Eventually, Blake came back downstairs to grab the three of us little ones. We beelined it outside to our driveway, where our maternal grandmother was waiting for us in her van. We were practically thrown into the car, and she zoomed away. Because it was a Saturday, our grandma took us straight to the flea market until someone else could come pick us up or figure out what to do next.

After Grandma Raced Us Away

I was profoundly close to my maternal grandparents, a bond forged out of necessity that grew into my entire world. My mom, Sandra, was the breadwinner of the family, working almost an hour away from our small town. Because daycares were so hard to come by, my grandma and grandpa took me in every single workday from the time I was six until I was a teenager. Out of all the grandkids, I was the only one who had this arrangement. With Mickey being completely hands-off, I became utterly obsessed with my grandfather. My grandmother was just a sweet, gentle woman who radiated love, and I adored being near her.

I still remember sitting in their living room one day, telling them how much I loved them. My grandpa paused, looked at me, and said they loved me too—but then he deepened it. “But really,” he said, “we really love you, and it’s a bit different.” Whether he meant it or not, little Della desperately needed to hear those words. I shared a unique, unspoken bond with them, and they always made sure I felt it. They lived close by and were our ultimate safe space, which is exactly why Blake called them first when everything fell apart. But there was a complicated layer to our safety net: my mom was the only girl in a family of boys. To my grandfather, she was his absolute pride and joy—she was daddy’s little girl.

The moment Grandma arrived that Saturday morning, she threw us into her van and raced us away from the house. To try and soothe us, she ran through a Dairy Queen drive-thru before taking us straight to the front office of the flea market. My grandfather was already there waiting for us.

Inside the office, Blake immediately took on the brunt of the work, managing the toddler and the baby. Terrified and seeking comfort, I did what I had always done: I ran straight toward my grandpa, the only real father figure I had ever known.

But instead of pulling me into a hug, he pushed me back. He looked down at me and asked, “What the hell did you do to my daughter?”

Blake and I infamously never got along, but the second those words left his mouth, she instantly jumped in to defend me. Stunned and rejected, I retreated to the other side of the office, shrinking closer to my grandma. I sat down at the L-shaped desk, my eyes darting blankly back and forth between the fake marble linoleum tabletop and the gas fireplace with its gold accents. Just above the fireplace, a little window cut into the wall held the cash register right next to the office door. I had spent a massive part of my childhood at that flea market, but I had never studied a piece of furniture more intensely than I did that desk. Decades later, I can still smell the plastic and feel the deep, faux-wood pores under my fingers.

I sat there frozen, just waiting and praying for 4:00 PM to come so we could finally leave for my grandma’s house. Sitting in the silence of that office, my grandfather’s accusation rang in my ears. I questioned what I could have possibly done that day to hurt my mom, but I honestly couldn’t remember.

The hours leading up to our escape had completely vanished from my mind. It’s deeply ironic because I was famous in our family for having a near-photographic memory, especially when it came to reciting movie and TV lines. But that morning, I had spent the day in my basement bedroom—the classic middle child just trying to stay out of the way. I hadn’t witnessed the breakdown firsthand. All I knew was what Blake had frantically told me before locking us in the closet: that upstairs in the living room, our mom was holding baby Faith, hysterically crying, angrily yelling, and threatening to kill the baby, the rest of us, and then herself.

My grandparents were already in their early 80s. By the time evening arrived, the reality of the situation set in. Managing a panicked teenager, a shell-shocked ten-year-old, a toddler, and a baby all at once was simply too much for them to handle. Before the night was over, we were packed up yet again and hauled over to my aunt and uncle’s house.

The Fine Line of Survival

When I look at my family’s survival alongside the horrific outcomes of the Andrea Yates and Lindsay Clancy cases, I am struck by how razor-thin the margin between life and death truly is. The core difference between my childhood and those tragic headlines isn’t the depth of the darkness—it was the timing of the intervention.

In both the Yates and Clancy cases, the mothers were left alone for brief, catastrophic windows of time while their husbands ran errands. In those exact moments of isolation, the psychosis took complete control. In our house, our father Mickey was also absent, but we had Blake. My sixteen-year-old sister became our unexpected shield. She recognized the emergency before our mother could act, locking us away and calling for reinforcements before isolation could turn deadly.

Furthermore, the systems around these women looked entirely different. Lindsay Clancy reportedly had a highly supportive, hands-on husband, yet the medical and pharmaceutical adjustments she was undergoing failed to catch her fall. Andrea Yates had a husband who actively dismissed the severity of clinical depression, famously viewing it as something requiring a “swift kick in the pants,” leaving her uniquely vulnerable despite explicit medical warnings.

Our mother was somewhere in the middle—dealing with a hands-off partner, but anchored by a fiercely devoted maternal family. My grandma and aunt didn’t hesitate; they immediately absorbed us into their lives, giving our mother the immediate space to be hospitalized and treated. We survived because an older sister acted, a grandmother drove the getaway van, and an aunt provided a sanctuary. The tragedy in the other cases is that those critical buffers weren’t there when the clock ran out.

How to Show Up for Postpartum Mothers

Postpartum depression and psychosis are not character flaws or a lack of maternal instinct; they are severe, all-consuming medical emergencies. If you want to protect and support the mothers in your life, you have to look past the surface.

• Do not leave a struggling mother alone: If a mother is showing signs of severe detachment, intense paranoia, extreme sleep deprivation, or expressing dark thoughts, do not leave her alone with the children. Even a 20-minute errand can be a dangerous window if she is experiencing a break from reality.
• Take over tangible burdens: Don’t just ask “How can I help?” Assume the answer is everything. Bring meals, wash the dishes, take care of the older siblings, or manage the night feedings so the mother can achieve deep, restorative sleep. Sleep deprivation is a massive trigger for psychiatric escalation.
• Listen without judgment: If a new mother admits to having scary, intrusive thoughts, do not react with horror or shame her. She needs a safe space to articulate her terror so that you can help her seek immediate psychiatric medical attention.
• Educate yourself on the warning signs: Learn to differentiate between the common “baby blues” and severe clinical shifts. Rapid speech, staying awake for days without feeling tired, extreme paranoia, or claiming to hear things are immediate red flags that require a trip to the emergency room.

We cannot continue to ignore the deadly potential of postpartum illness. It takes a village not just to raise a child, but to keep a mother safely anchored to reality. 

My sisters and I are here today because our village broke down the doors to save us. Let’s make sure we are doing the same for the mothers fighting their own silent battles today.

As The Trial Continues: 

As the trial of Lindsay Clancy continues today, Wednesday, July 29th, the stark contrast between the prosecution’s strategy and the defense’s argument is becoming clearer.

Prosecutors have emphasized that Clancy took only a fraction of her prescribed medications and declined or failed to complete inpatient treatment programs. To secure a conviction for first-degree murder, the state must prove beyond a reasonable doubt that she acted with deliberation and extreme atrocity—and that she was legally sane and understood the wrongfulness of her actions at the time.

Meanwhile, the children’s father and Clancy’s ex-husband remains on the stand as the prosecution’s first witness. As the trial unfolds, it will be compelling to see whether his testimony ultimately strengthens the prosecution’s case or lends weight to the defense’s portrait of severe postpartum psychosis. 

As this trial continues to unfold in the public eye, it serves as a stark reminder of the complex, often devastating intersection between severe maternal mental health crises and the justice system. Regardless of how the court ultimately rules, the conversation surrounding postpartum mental health, medical intervention, and warning signs is far from over.

Understanding the Spectrum & Showing Up

As this trial unfolds, it highlights a crucial truth: postpartum mental health exists on a wide spectrum, and knowing the difference between common struggles and a medical crisis can save lives.

• Baby Blues vs. PPD vs. PPP: While the “blues” pass in two weeks, Postpartum Depression (PPD) brings persistent numbness or intense anxiety. Postpartum Psychosis (PPP) is a rare medical emergency marked by hallucinations, severe paranoia, or total insomnia where a mother goes days without sleep yet feels unnaturally energized.
• Intrusive Thoughts vs. Delusions: Mothers with PPD often experience terrifying, unwanted thoughts that cause them intense shame—they have no desire to act on them. Delusions in PPP, however, warp reality, causing a mother to lose insight into what is real.
• How to Support: Don’t ask a struggling mother what she needs—take action. Protect her sleep by taking night shifts, handle meals and chores without asking, and validate her feelings without toxically positive platitudes. Most importantly, accompany her to medical appointments to advocate for her if she’s downplaying her symptoms.

Looking Ahead

The line between legal sanity and severe mental illness is one of the most complex boundaries a jury can navigate. As the prosecution continues presenting its case, Della will be following every development closely.

This case is just one piece of a much larger conversation about maternal mental health, systemic gaps, and family dynamics. As the trial continues, we’ll be diving deeper into these topics in our ongoing “Fractured Motherhood” series right here on delladweiss.com.

If you or someone you know is struggling with perinatal mental health, help is available 24/7 via the National Maternal Mental Health Hotline at 1-833-852-6262 or Postpartum Support International at 1-800-944-4773.

◆ Life’s Random Inventory: From Sourdough to Daddy Issues

Be Real. Be Kind. Make Up Your Own Mind.