The Birth of A Mother, Pt. 1 (2025)

I hit rock bottom in my pregnancy.

I had always looked forward to being pregnant. I imagined having a big belly I could use as a mini table - what could be cooler! Everyone I knew who had been pregnant praised their experiences. I couldn’t wait for my turn.

And then it hit me like a slap in the face.

During my first trimester, I was nauseous all the time and was completely drained of energy. Little did I know, that would be the easy part.

At the start of my second semester, work became incredibly stressful. I worked in change management, and let’s just say my colleagues were not the biggest fans of change. When the stress started taking a toll, I went to the doctor, who put me on sick leave.

I thought being at home would help. It didn’t.

My anxiety spiraled out of control. I woke up every day with a heavy weight on my chest. I couldn’t sleep. My body retained so much water I couldn’t recognize my face. It took a monumental effort to get out of bed. There were days when all I could do was lie in bed and cry.

I didn’t feel like myself. I didn’t want to see anyone. I canceled most of my plans, and each cancellation usually led to another depressive episode.

My husband felt so helpless, watching me struggle.

I started attending a hospital program for pregnant women dealing with mental health issues. Everyone was always so nice, but talking about how I felt often made my anxiety worse.

I felt broken. Unfixable.

I wasn’t afraid of the little baby growing inside me. I never blamed him or wished him away. But I was terrified of what he would think of me. That he wouldn’t want me. That I’d be a bad mom. That we wouldn’t bond.

One of my midwives told me that women who suffer from mental health issues in their pregnancy are more likely to have difficulty bonding with their baby.

I know she meant well - to prepare me in case it happened. But instead, it filled me fear and shame.

When my due date came and went with no signs of labor, I became convinced something was wrong. My baby didn’t want to meet me.

One day overdue. Two days. The five. The texts started rolling in: Still pregnant? Any news? How are you going?

I threw away my phone and went into isolation. I felt like I was letting everyone down.

Finally, at nine days overdue, I began to feel contractions. It was the middle of the night. I wanted to be sure, so I moved to the living room and sat on my yoga ball.

I hated that no one could tell me for sure if I was in labor. I had to be the one to feel it myself. I was so worried that I wouldn’t get it right.

As I focused on the contractions, I noticed something. I could barely feel our baby moving.

Panic shot through me.

I woke up my husband, and we called the hospital. After an ultrasound, they found that our baby had almost no room or amniotic fluid left. They needed to break my water to speed things up.

Twelve hours later, after two hours of pushing, our son was born.

I was in a complete daze. I could not fully grasp that the baby lying on my chest was my son. The little boy that I had carried for ten months.

In that moment, I felt one overwhelming thing: relief.

But the next morning, after some broken sleep between feedings, I looked over at the tiny baby sleeping in his clear plastic crib.

And this time, the feeling was different.

Love.

Once More

A Sonnet

This feels so hard; I don’t want to leave bed.
No one told me that this would be so tough.
The stress, the sadness, voices in my head,
Leave me alone—right now, I’m way too rough.

My belly grows along with my self-hate.
Why do they treat me like a ticking bomb?
One day, two days, a week over the date.
What if he does not want to meet his mom?

Can’t wait. They pop my water as I lie.
The pain rips me in two. I scream for rest.
Just push, they say—for hours still I try.
A baby cries; it’s laid on my bare breast.

It’s him, my son; I feel it in my core.
I know, for him, I’d do it all once more.