Life is so full of nuance. We tend to want things to operate in black and white, and the truest reality is that the complexity of life experiences exists exquisitely in the black, white, AND gray. My experience with a surprise pregnancy, preterm birth during a pandemic, an extensive stay in the NICU, and the days that have followed into a very isolated parenthood is nothing short of nuanced at its finest. It’s not a point A to point B experience. It doesn’t fit neatly into any of the boxes. It’s complex, painful, beautiful, challenging, poignant.
I want to begin this story by sharing that in the complexities and emotional peaks and valleys of life, there is no “right” or “wrong” way to feel or experience them. There are no right or wrong emotions. There is just how you feel. Your experiences are valid and legitimate. Some may tell you how they think you “should” feel, and this is dismissive at best but also a reflection of their emotional status and lack of emotional maturity, not yours. There’s just how you feel, no “shoulds” about it, and there’s nothing wrong with your experience being different from someone else’s. It is paramount that we give one another the dignity of our own unique process. The more we can show up and meet one another right where we are, in whatever the season and without personal expectation, the more effective friends, spouses, family members, parents, colleagues we can be.
It’s always difficult to try to condense an immense emotional experience into concrete words on a page (hence this three-part iteration!). Truly no words can ever adequately express the magnitude of something like bringing new life into the world, but alas, I’m attempting to share as best I can, not just for sake of my own emotional processing, but also in hopes of encouraging others.
I believe that birth stories are so much bigger and deeper and complex than just the physical details of how a baby enters the world. It’s also the new birth of the mother, the father, and the rebirth of life as you knew it. Please note here, birth stories can be triggering for some, especially where experiences are traumatic and perhaps there has not been space for emotional processing, so please tread lightly, and thank you for reading about my experience. I also want to speak to those trying, hoping, waiting, navigating loss. My heart aches for you in the waiting and the sorrow. My sincere hope is that if you’re reading this, you can find pieces of your own story echoed here, and that it can be healing, restorative, empowering, and validating.
Unbeknownst to me, I was pregnant here and just beginning to suspect it.
Children were never something that I definitively “knew” that I wanted in any way. I can’t say that I’ve ever really had the desire to be a mom. I have the utmost admiration for those women who do, who just know inherently that motherhood is the path for them. It was certainly a discussion my husband and I had, always landing in the camp of “maybe some day.” We set a vague five year plan when we got married, assuming that maybe in five years we’d want kids. Year five came and went, and we were nowhere near ready. But it was never a definite “no, never” either. In the back of my mind, I felt like it was something that would just have to happen, not be a decision we tried to force. How does one make such a lofty decision anyway? And never mind the chaos that is military life, where the only guarantee is uncertainty and fluidity. Suffice it to say, children were nowhere on our radar.
While it could be said that the depth of this story began long before it landed on my radar with a positive pregnancy test, for sake of narrative we’ll begin here. On September 16th, 2019, two days after my 31st birthday and a few days into speculating that something just might be amiss, I took my first ever pregnancy test. Through all my years of schooling, this was handily the most stressful test I have ever taken. My plan was to do the thing, set a timer for the suggested three minutes, and just try to remain calm and breathe deeply while I waited and continued to plead “please Lord, don’t let me be pregnant.” Unfortunately, I happened to glance the test out of the corner of my eye almost immediately and was met with two stark, glaring, incriminating pink lines. Not a faint “eh, you might be pregnant but results are inconclusive.” Two bright, definitive “You’re super pregnant! Buckle up, sweetheart” lines.
I sat on the bathroom floor and immediately began to sob. Deep, gut-wrenching, life-as-I-knew-it is about to change forever sobs. I can’t even put into adequate words how I felt, it was so immense and overwhelming and unexpected. My husband came in and sat with me as I cried and began to list out all the reasons I didn’t want to be pregnant: I wasn’t ready. I had no plan for this. Everything was going to be different. My life would be over. I wouldn’t be able to show up well as a parent until I knew myself better. My body isn’t ready. I wanted our marriage to be stronger before bringing a child into the messiness of life. I didn’t get to choose. I don’t want this. Not tears of joy, but immense sorrow, fear, frustration, indignation. Why me? Why, God, would you do this?? I didn’t even know if it was something I wanted. I didn’t feel like I had a say in the matter (yes, I do know how babies are made). I felt obliterated, like in a moment, everything was different. In an instant, I was no longer just me. I couldn’t fathom bringing a new life into the world. There was so much more I wanted to do and see. I felt like my life was over. And in many ways, it was. The life I had known was ending. But in other more poignant and refining ways, it was also just beginning, and these are the kinds of shifts in perspective that can only come with time.
The subsequent days were much of the same, feeling through the heaviness of big emotions that inevitably come with a massive change of course. It was so hard to wrap my head around what was happening. Intrinsically too I could feel the miraculousness of it all. Nuance at its finest: incredulity and awe.
I couldn’t just sit with the news and hope for the best. I had to take immediate action because of my Hashimoto’s hypothyroidism. I’d never been on medication for it, opting to focus on diet and lifestyle changes alone over the years. I’d heard many stories from fellow Hashimoto’s warriors about struggles with fertility, and in the back of my mind I’d always assumed that would be my plight, too. I assumed I’d have to work hard and be intentional about getting pregnant if ever I wanted. After doing some deeper digging, I learned that an optimally functioning thyroid is especially vital in the first trimester. Thanks to the sage counsel of a fellow nutritional therapist friend, I sought out a midwife who could do a comprehensive thyroid panel and help get me on the right track.
Without any semblance of a game plan in place, I spent the following days steeped in stress and shock, researching what to do next, fearful of what my body and thyroid might do. Would I be ok if my body couldn’t rise to the occasion, or wasn’t in fact ready for a pregnancy? This was perhaps the heaviest question to contend with of all. Even though I didn’t want to be pregnant, I also didn’t not want it. Deep, difficult nuance. Thoughts and fears began to arise here around my changing body. I’ve spent a lifetime battling negative body image, riding it like a roller coaster over the years, waxing and waning between awe and appreciation and frustration and loathing. I knew the bodily changes that come with pregnancy would be difficult to contend with, and add to that mix the thyroid fluctuations that can lead to unwanted, difficult-to-lose weight gain. At one point I even spent an inordinate amount of time researching if your hips can “go back” after childbirth, and the various wraps and belts and contraptions one could invest in to speed along the shrinking process (thankfully I didn’t invest in any of these. Save your money and just focus on a healthy body instead). These were difficult things to ponder, and rather than try to force myself out of the discomfort, I chose to intentionally sit with them. Although painful, I knew they were purposeful.
I want to pause here and really hit home that no matter your experience, whether pregnant and ecstatic or trying and hopeful or mourning loss or never wanting kids at all: your experience is valid. Societal and sometimes cultural pressures would say that you should absolutely have children, as soon as you get married. It’s often relegated to a matter of duty, even, and if you’re married and not having children, surely something is wrong with you. I’m here to challenge the heck out of those archaic assumptions. No one can dictate or put pressure on what your life experience should be. These kinds of assumptions and the comments that follow are not only ill-placed, but they can be deeply wounding to those who are trying to conceive and struggling, or who have been told that getting pregnant will never be possible, or those who just don’t want to have children at all. The only people who have a right to the conversation of procreating are you and your partner (and your doctor and sometimes a fertility specialist). There’s nothing wrong with waiting just as much as there’s nothing wrong with never having kids or deeply desiring to have kids. There is no one right or wrong way, there’s just your way.
As I began to plan, I knew without a doubt that I didn’t want a more conventional hospital birth. I’m a big believer in the body’s ability to do its thing when it has the right support, and I wanted to approach pregnancy and birth from that holistic place. This is a personal decision that I believe every woman should have the right to navigate. I also knew I didn’t quite want a home birth for my first go. In my digging I learned more about the work of midwives and that there was an amazing freestanding birth center nearby. The birth center was exactly what I wanted. It would allow me to lean in to my body’s intuition with minimal intervention and the best comprehensive support. With the added help of a doula, I could labor at home and deliver at the birth center, whose rooms are set up like bedrooms and offer the options to labor and deliver in whatever ways feel comfortable to you.
With my Hashimoto’s hanging in the balance, I was able to get an immediate appointment with a midwife, assess my thyroid numbers, and start medication immediately. Even though meds were something I’d always hoped to avoid, I knew this was unquestionably the appropriate time and place, especially as I continued to support my body well with quality nourishment and movement. And truthfully, surprise pregnancy and all, it made it a much easier pill to swallow, figuratively speaking. At this point I was a little over 2 weeks pregnant (or 4 weeks, according to the weird time measurement tactics of pregnancy). My first official appointment to see baby would be at 12 weeks. In the meantime, we continued to track my thyroid every few weeks and make adjustments as necessary.
I both feared and revered my own body. I feared a resurgence of lifelong body image struggles in the midst of the impending changes I knew were coming. I feared postpartum chaos, having heard the laments and struggles of many women. I feared the swings that can come with Hashimoto’s. I feared the whole getting-a-human-person-out-of-your-delicate-nether-region bit. I feared the postpartum body, even while knowing that the whole “getting your body back” postpartum is an unfair and unrealistic pressure and expectation lauded by misplaced societal standards. These were all struggles I knew I’d have if ever pregnant one day, and here they were in full, unexpected force. At the same time, I revered that my body got pregnant. I valued the intentional care I’d put in over the years to nourish and support my body well. This was truly shock and awe hand in hand: shock that I was pregnant, and in awe that I was pregnant.
While I continued to process through these days, I knew that I needed to hold these ponderings close to my heart. I didn’t want added voices and expectations in the mix and I wasn’t ready to receive the excitement of others, so we chose to keep this to ourselves until we felt ready to share. In a culture where there is often a big to-do around pregnancy announcements and reveal parties (which are all wonderful things if you want them), I knew that wasn’t what my heart needed or wanted. A quick Pinterest search can provide you countless clever ways to tell your partner that a baby is on the way, but not a single one available for how to feel through the heavy emotions of an unexpected pregnancy with your spouse while you sob on the bathroom floor. There’s certainly not a Hallmark card for it. I told my husband through tears, not a fun “you’re going to be a dad!” announcement. My heart ached in this lost experience, wishing I could have felt excitement and shared it in some clever or cute way, but that just wasn’t where I was, and that was ok. I couldn’t be anything other than true to the experience, and I wanted to feel through the discomfort intentionally, not try to synthetically or inauthentically force myself to feel different (spoiler alert: this never actually works. Those heavy emotions will still be there waiting until you’re able to give them the space they need). In taking the time and intention to sit with the discomfort, I was able to show up more fully to this new chapter.
My 12 week ultrasound appointment arrived, and I went in with apprehension and a host of complex emotions. Would there actually be a baby in there? How would I feel? What if I don’t cry? What if I don’t feel anything? Would I be ok if something was wrong? What if I wanted it to not be true? Even with a positive pregnancy test, it is so easy to doubt that something is actually in there until you see it and have a professional confirm it. My midwife applied the truth serum (aka the belly jelly) and began the ultrasound while my heart pounded into oblivion, waiting to hear another, different heartbeat. A few seconds in she declared “well, it looks like there’s two!” Full stop. Excuse me, what? My heart plummeted into my stomach and my head exploded with all the thoughts. I can’t even comprehend one, how could there possibly be two?! Do twins even run in my family? No no no no no no no. But alas, after the longest few seconds known to man, she confirmed that it was, in fact, just the one. In the history of sighs of relief, this was the biggest. Then we saw that tiny little profile on the screen. Baby was active and jumping around, we could see little arms and legs and feet, heartbeat was strong, and it was suddenly very real and unreal at the same time. If you’ve ever seen the movie Baby Mama, this was the real-life Amy Poehler character equivalent of “There’s a baby in there? How did it get there?!” Part of me was holding out in disbelief until this moment. Once I got here, I knew the processing would really have to begin. This appointment also gave us a projected due date of May 18th, 2020, and it felt like the journey truly began.
After that appointment I began to feel subtle shifts. I was able to slowly begin to process more intentionally. I found myself regularly pulling out those little black and white ultrasound pictures that I kept tucked away out of sight. The constant visual was still a little too much, but the option to look them over as I was ready was therapeutic. I would stare at that little profile and recall that jumping bean on the screen. We began to have more intentional conversations about baby and what we might want/not want in raising him or her. I downloaded a pregnancy app to track what weekly fruit or veg baby mirrored in size as things progressed. I purchased my first onesie in an attempt to feel more ready and accepting. I would sit in what would eventually be baby’s room and just try to absorb it and pray that I could rise to the occasion. I purchased the only pregnancy book I would read, as I didn’t need to feel more overwhelmed with the massive amounts of information available. And I began to hope that it would be a boy, for some reason feeling that it would be simultaneously easier on my heart and challenging to areas in my life where I felt I needed to grow.
The first trimester passed with relatively little fanfare. Around week 8 I remember waking in the night, certain I had felt a little flutter of movement. I didn’t have strong morning sickness, but did feel vaguely nauseous all day from weeks 10-15. Most days I was still able to work out moderately and nourish well. I took naps when needed. Throughout the course of my pregnancy I only had a few random cravings, and mostly for things I’d long left behind in my gluten days (pop tarts were a huge one!) In the unexpectedness of it all, I felt so much gratitude that symptoms were manageable. It allowed me to process that much more effectively.
We opted to find out the gender early via blood test at around 18 weeks. I was driving home one day when I got the message that the results were in, so I texted my husband at work to see if I could drop by. We sat in my car and without any fanfare, opened the results on my phone to learn about our baby boy. We were both excited. This was another layer in the story to feeling more peace and acceptance. This was one of the first times I genuinely felt excited. Now we could connect differently with him. I could comprehend him more clearly. I drove home genuinely thanking God for the first time because it was truthfully the first time I felt able. We didn’t want any kind of big gender reveal. At this point in time, we hadn’t told anyone beyond a select few who needed to know and with whom we felt ready to safely share. We continued to hold these things close to our hearts and it brought so much peace and much needed space to process.
I began to look into doulas and did a couple of interviews before I hired one, feeling so much more confident at having her involved in my birth experience. I didn’t want the brunt of that task landing on my husband, and loved that she would come to our house when labor began and would also help us know when to head to the birth center. As a first-time mom opting for natural birth, the birth center also required that you take a birthing class, which I really appreciated. After a lot of research I landed on Hypnobabies, with our first class to start on March 22nd, giving me plenty of time before my May 18th due date. I felt like it would help quell any lingering fears and apprehensions and put me in a place of empowerment and presence during labor and delivery.
We finally decided that we would tell family collectively at Christmas. On an emotional high, I had made Christmas cards with our ultrasound pic, but realized I wasn’t actually ready to send them, so I waited and chose to just hand them out in person. While I still didn’t fully feel ready to share, it also felt like it was time. I would be almost 20 weeks pregnant at this point and was starting to show. This also meant having to be prepared to receive input and unsolicited advice. And come it did. There were assumptions and expectations. There was shock that we didn’t share sooner. Excitement, of course. It was difficult to try to separate other’s expectations and leave them in their space without needlessly taking them on.
This was also around the time that I first felt his little movements consistently. I’d always loved the name Jude, so I experimented with playing the classic Beatle’s song “Hey Jude” close to my belly and I felt his little flutters for the first time. That sealed the deal. His name would be Jude (we chose not to share this until after he was born. It was really special to have this to ourselves.)
I want to take a moment here and really hit home some encouragement and charge on how we can more effectively show up for one another in life’s complexities. I was truly shocked at how quick so many were to dismiss where I was in my journey, and while I can recognize the well-meaningness of it all, that also does not excuse us from a responsibility to strive to show up well for one another. My hope has been to condense these things down to a charge to see one another better and be willing to sit in discomfort, not jump to trying to solve or convince someone that they should feel differently. I was told that how I felt wasn’t “normal.” I was told that I “should” be excited. That this was “supposed” to be a time of x, y, z. That I was going to need to show up for my son and my current status wasn’t going to cut it. When I would vulnerably share where I was in this journey and how I was working to be aware and authentic, I was often met with a dismissive “oh but, it’s just the greatest thing. You’ll see.” Yes, AND. Yes, it could be great AND also be incredibly difficult to process. Life’s complex experiences don’t have to be just one singular rote thing. It can be both wonderful and painful at the same time. Future joyful and present overwhelming. Black, white, and various shades of gray.
Truthfully, I was appalled and shocked at how much negativity came in the form of “advice,” others thinking they were lending well-meaning encouragement when in fact it was the opposite. To be fair, childbearing is no small feat. A lot can and does happen. It is so many complex things all at once. But we, as women, truly do one another a disservice when our knee-jerk reaction is to share the worst facets of the experience. I saw this most prominently and often in the form of “just you wait.” The number of times I heard this phrase as a follow-up to sharing something about my own pregnancy was appalling. If I shared about having some pregnancy discomfort, it was a “oh just you wait, it will get SO much worse!” Even if I shared a hopeful positive, like “I’m actually feeling pretty good!” I also often heard “Just you wait!” in response. The time for this kind of response is never. It is discouraging at best and dismissive at worst. Instead, seek to enter in. Acknowledge the present struggle or celebration being shared. Then, and only then, if you feel you might have something useful to contribute, ASK first if your advice would be welcome. It is a privilege to share in someone’s vulnerability. Stop dismissing and start honoring and validating those around you who are exercising bravery and vulnerability by sharing their experience. That is sacred space.
Women, we can do better. We do one another a real disservice when we bombard a new mama-to-be with all the worst facets of our own pregnancy and delivery experiences. It needs to stop. Every experience is unique and different, and while there are certainly many similarities, we need not launch our experience on one another. What happened for you does not mean it is what will happen for the next woman. No need to recount the carnage of your own delivery to the newly pregnant woman who is likely already feeling enough apprehension at her own pending delivery experience. These are not helpful things. This is not your time. Process your experience intentionally, in the right outlets, don’t force the most gory/surprising/appalling aspects of your experience on other women in the midst of their own journey. We can show up and hold space for one another with intention while also not needlessly contributing to the overwhelm. It can be a simple shift of pausing, acknowledging how someone is feeling, letting them know they’re seen and heard, and asking permission to share from personal experience vs hijacking the conversation and offloading your own assumptions, expectations, and personal experiences when they might not be wanted or useful at that time.
Not everyone will have the capacity or emotional maturity to understand or meet you where you are. Their responses or lack of presence and acknowledgement don’t invalidate your experience. Outside validation can be soothing where wounds are present, but sometimes that validation can only come from you and from giving yourself the permission to lean in and sit with. Ultimately, no one can deny you your experience. It can be hurtful and destructive when those closest to you don’t understand and respond out of their own experience or lack thereof, but your process is still yours, and no one can take that from you.
Naturally things were different once the news was out. I worked to balance honoring the role that others wanted to play in this experience while also honoring where I was and the time and space I needed to continue to process intentionally. We had our 20-week anatomy ultrasound and got to see all of baby boy’s perfect development. He had his tongue out during the entire ultrasound and it was really special to see him in such detail and catch a glimpse of his little personality. I continued to support my body and my health with things like acupuncture, massage, daily movement, quality nourishment and supplementation. I was intentional about the resources I chose to absorb and opted out of a massive influx of excessive information. Baby showers were planned. I signed up for our birthing class. Then before I knew it, I was entering the third trimester.
I planned a babymoon for us to enjoy some quality time together before life as we knew it was drastically different. Unfortunately, said babymoon ended up being more stress and chaos than enjoyment or calm. A week after returning home from our trip, seemingly overnight, the world turned upside down with the full- on explosion of a global pandemic. We didn’t know what the coming weeks would hold. My midwife appointments went virtual for the most part. We were essentially stuck at home, not visiting anyone, wondering what the future would look like. Even in this uncertainty, I was so grateful for my planned birth center birth experience. It would still be able to be the peaceful, calm birth I was envisioning, even with the world in disarray. And then the chaos of everything amplified with a dramatic and unexpected shift in the timeline.
You can find Part 2 of this story here.
For more info on preparing for a natural pregnancy and birth experience, I highly recommend these resources: