“I’m fine, thanks,” and Other Lies I Told Myself During Pregnancy

My pregnancy has not been an easy one. It has not been filled with glowing moments and ethereal transcendence. Rather, it has been defined by sadness, grief, doubt, and full-term morning sickness. I haven’t been the radiant pregnant person I always hoped I would be. Instead of joyfully documenting each week with bump photos, I have been on the bathroom floor. I have been sleeping because at least if I’m not awake, I’m not sick. At least when I’m asleep, I feel less so as if I’m drowning in sadness. I have been trying to maintain friendships, my own mental health, my job, and my relationship all while operating at about 30% capacity.

Like many people, I had preconceived notions of what pregnancy would be like. I pictured myself feeling an immediate bond with the child who would be growing inside of me. I expected some kind of otherworldly connection, the kind that moms tell you, “you’ll only understand once you have carried a child.” But that never came. What did I do wrong? Am I broken? 

I have struggled with mental and physical health for years and have grown accustomed to my body and mind not doing what they’re “supposed” to do. In many ways, pregnancy has made me feel like, yet again, my body is failing me. I kept waiting for something to change. Undoubtedly once I see the first ultrasound, the promised, indescribable connection would arrive. No? Okay, well definitely once I know the sex and am able to call the baby by their name. No, not then either. Obviously, I would feel some deeper connection when the baby moves for the first time. Sorry, but no magic moment there either. For the split second when I feel a kick or roll, this wildly abstract experience feels tangible. I feel connected. But as quickly as that sensation comes, it is gone. And the amount of shame and guilt I feel about this lack of connection is indescribable

I fully expected to struggle to define what becoming a mother looks like for me, all while fending off and processing societal and cultural expectations. Even though I was prepared for this, I was not prepared to deal with a very cliché experience: losing friends because of pregnancy. I am not defined by my pregnancy. I am not defined by the fact that come February, I will be a mother. Yet people expect that I will change and won't be the same person anymore. This belief has impacted the way they treat me in a truly harmful way. When someone you care about tells you, with malice, that they, “wish you weren’t pregnant,” because it will change your friendship or that being around you and your pregnancy make them, “want to be physically ill,” there isn’t much you can do or say. While a small silver lining of COVID is that I haven’t had to set a physical boundary with people to keep them from touching my stomach, I have had to set more emotional and personal boundaries than ever before. While boundaries are an important and healthy part of any relationships, I've had to set these boundaries to protect myself from pain. This process in itself is exhausting and heartbreaking.

I carry a lot of shame regarding how I feel with this pregnancy. That shame became worse when I realized I was also experiencing prenatal depression. I have felt detached not only from my body and the baby growing inside of it, but also from my life. I have “performed” by acting excited and putting my hand on my bump as if it meant something to me. But it felt empty. I felt empty. I felt as if this is what I was supposed to be doing. After all, I had the support of friends and family. I was consistently working with a mental health professional. I cannot point to exactly what my breaking point was, but at about six months pregnant, something happened. I hit a wall and couldn’t hide my sadness or pain anymore. I couldn’t pretend. And the fear that this feeling could not only get worse but could continue into postpartum was enough to keep me awake night after night. Again, I felt like I was doing what I was supposed to be doing. I reached out to a psychologist. I’ve tried to stop telling my midwives that my anxiety and depression are, “fine, thanks for asking.” But I am still awake most nights scared that we made a mistake and that I will fail my baby in the same ways my body and mind fail me.

This has been, to put it mildly, a unique year to experience pregnancy for the first time. Before I jump into the COVID of it all, it is important to me that I recognize all the ways in which my family’s privilege has manifested itself in 2020. We have healthcare. We are employed and secure in our housing and access to resources. We are able to protect ourselves (and others) through quarantining, wearing masks, and staying home. But while all of those things are true, it is also true that we have been impacted by COVID-19 and the collective trauma we are experiencing as a country. 

This year has been incredibly isolating, both physically and emotionally due to the pandemic. Because of his work, my partner has been gone more than usual. He has only been allowed to attend one doctor’s appointment. He wasn’t even with me when I was told that my pregnancy was considered high-risk. And, he is currently scheduled to be gone for the due date. He will likely spend the majority of the baby’s first year somewhere on the other side of the world. This, combined with pregnancy putting me at a higher risk for COVID-19, has forced me to question whether or not we were selfish and reckless continuing to try for a child in the midst of a pandemic. How could I put myself, and in turn my child, at an even greater and unnecessary risk? How could I add to the enormous responsibility of healthcare workers? How can I rationalize that my care takes precious time and resources when my own needs feel so insignificant compared to the needs of the many?  As if I couldn’t feel any more shame surrounding this pregnancy and how I am experiencing it, I now felt held underwater by the weight of our choices.

I can complain about how COVID has altered my experience with pregnancy, but at the end of the day, no one forced this upon me. This was a conscious choice - a calculated and carefully planned life change. So what right do I have to struggle, considering I knew we were in the midst of a pandemic? Am I let off the hook because no one knew in the spring what the world would look like this winter? Or is that just an inane attempt to excuse my own selfish and careless actions? These questions slip in, insidious and uninvited, taunting me. They remind me that my struggles with COVID are almost entirely of my own making. And as soon as that regret creeps in, so does the reminder that we live in a society that expects me to be happy, grateful, and glowing. I am by definition creating and giving life, which can only be beautiful. Right? 

Combined with my fears surrounding my own health, the health of the baby, and the guilt I feel over being pregnant, I have struggled with deeply rooted anger over the past few months. At about three months pregnant, my grandmother died. I was alone, on the other side of the country and away from my family. My partner was working two states away. I was unable to travel in any capacity because the risk to both myself and the baby was too great, as well as the risk to others. It is difficult for me to put into words the deep, unabating grief I still feel and the singular pain that comes with having made the “choice” to not travel and say goodbye. I have spent sleepless nights questioning my decision after seeing those around me act as if the pandemic is nothing more than a fleeting annoyance they need not concern themselves with. Watching people I care about and trust flat out dismiss COVID as a risk, believe that they are exempt, or believe that their own selfish desires are more important than the health of others has brought me to new lows. In the early hours of the morning when I am haunted by my decision to not travel, I feel that I am losing my mind. That I should have been there to say goodbye. That I failed my grandma. 

I can sit here and wish it were different, but the reality is that pregnancy has been a gut-wrenching and painful experience. It has brought me to my knees more than once, both figuratively and literally in front of the toilet. Contrary to what I am constantly told, I don’t think that I will forget the hardest parts and reflect on these nine months with wistfulness and appreciation. Yes, the memories of throwing up, which are vivid and visceral right now, will likely fade. I may forget the feeling of my world slowly turning black when I passed out alone in a parking lot. I may even decide pregnancy is something I want to do again. But will I forget the shame? The guilt and grief? The depression? I don’t think so. And that is okay.