Through my young adulthood, it never occurred to me that I might not be a mother. I imagined I would go to college, meet the man of my dreams and fall madly in love, get married, and have a baby, all by age 26. By the time age 35 rolled around, I was still single and unattached. Like thick, October fog, a deep fear had rolled in that I might actually not experience the magic and miracle of pregnancy and becoming a mother. Fertility testing that same year confirmed the chances for me achieving pregnancy were very low.

My husband and I on our wedding day; I was seven weeks pregnant.

I met my now-husband later that year, and my life began to unfold in new and joyful ways. Eventually, we found out I was pregnant. This pregnancy was completely welcome despite the shock and uncertainty about what to do next. We told family and close friends; the fella’s parents had come into town the day we found out, which made it all seem so perfect and meant to be. A week later, I lost the pregnancy. That kicked off the first item on my list of 7 Things No One Told Me About Pregnancy.

Having a miscarriage might not feel like the end of the world. For most women, losing a pregnancy is the equivalent of losing a child, hope, a piece of yourself. It’s more than physically painful; it’s emotionally and mentally painful. But that was not my experience. My miscarriage felt like a fact. A fact well summed up by Jack Kornfield, his words dotting the “i” of my miscarriage perspective and experience: “To let go does not mean to get rid of. To let go means to let be. When we let be with compassion, things come and go on their own.” For me, that meant acceptance of the loss and to continue hoping for a baby in the future. About nine months later, one month away from our wedding and on a break from fertility treatments, we found out that we were, again, pregnant. The excitement rolled in; however: No one told me I might not enjoy being pregnant. That’s right: I do not enjoy being pregnant. Pregnancy is most often portrayed as a time of great joy. My mother is baffled by me as she loved being pregnant. I rarely, if ever, heard my seasoned mom-friends complain about pregnancy. So, I believed that I would feel beautiful and magical during my pregnancy; that I would love being pregnant, feeling the baby kick, experiencing the privileges that comes with growing a human in my body. That has not been the case at all. During our honeymoon in Maui, I was laid up in bed and sick most of the week. It was frustrating and devastating, and the the guilt I experienced by not feeling up to joining my husband for swimming, hiking, and exploring was unending. My disdain for pregnancy, sadly, went downhill from there. I brought my concern about this to Facebook for some perspective and was surprised at the comments I received. Many, many moms agreed that they, too, disliked being pregnant. It was just that no one ever actually admitted they disliked being pregnant. That has been a small vindication for me. When one discomfort eases, another will appear. Enter my second trimester trifecta: heavy, sore feet, nighttime severe restless legs, midnight charlie horse cramping. These three things had their own side effect: insomnia. Some nights, I didn’t slept at all but watched the sun rise at 6 AM, only to go into work late so I could soak up two or three hours of post-dawn sleep. Some nights I’d tell myself the insomnia is preparing me for baby’s arrival in a few months; some nights my anxiety kicked in and I experienced long periods of midnight panic and crying. Lots of crying. Prenatal depression is a thing. Everyone knows about postpartum depression. Even I have discussed postpartum depression (PPD) with my doula and midwife and tools I can use to prevent PPD. But it was not until recently, already in my sixth month, that I realized I experience prenatal depression. Some days I feel like I am walking around aimlessly with an alien doing the jig in my belly, and I need something but I don’t know what I need (nourishment? a glass of water? a nap? chocolate? sex?). My husband sees clearly that something is amiss and will ask what he can do for me. Meekly, I mumble, “Nothing,” or just shake my head and wander off in a cloud. There are days where I am simply unhappy and I can’t explain why — because I don’t know, myself. There are days where my anxiety is through the roof and I am so overwhelmed that I can’t do much more than go home from work and sit in bed. Thankfully, my husband is supportive—but… Even the most supportive men don’t know always how to help their pregnant partners. For me, this adds to the frustrations of pregnancy. Pregnancy is a unique condition complete with a myriad of physical and hormonal changes. I find I need extra emotional support from my husband, but I am horrible at asking for it. I feel like it should be known that I need the support, and that I should automatically be pampered for growing this little human in my body. Until about halfway through my pregnancy, I didn’t lay down any expectations of my husband; if I needed something, I tried really hard to be what I considered “reasonable” and do it myself and not add to his stress. Eventually, feeling like he couldn’t help, he started checking out. That fueled a fire he didn’t know had sparked. When we finally had a come-to-Jesus moment, I explained in written detail what I needed from him and how he could help me. He read it. He responded appropriately. My husband loves to solve problems. His number one goal is to make me happy—I simply have to explicitly state what I need or want. Especially in pregnancy. It scuffs out the magic out of being pregnant and pampered, but it works. My pregnancy is a unique pregnancy. Your pregnancy will be a unique pregnancy. What you see isn’t always what you get. Reading the pregnancy websites, blogs, and message boards is dangerous. These sites might give women an idea of some common pregnancy experiences and symptoms (good and bad), but the information has to be taken with a grain of salt. I’ve stopped reading those websites, blogs, and message boards because they put unnecessary worry into my head. I’ve receive a lot of “advice” from seasoned mamas who tell me I’ll experience the wide-array of symptoms (or, worse, birthing experiences) that they themselves had, some of them unpleasant or downright awful. I’ve had to remind myself — and them—that my pregnancy is unique to me. The bottom line is that you can prepare for your pregnancy or birth experience, but you cannot plan for your pregnancy or birth experience. Pregnancy and birth are too fluid to plan. My planner personality is displeased with this. Everyone has something to say. When I complain about a pregnancy discomfort on social media (rare, but it happens), it is inevitable that someone will remind me they couldn’t have a baby, or lost a baby, and that I “should be thankful.” I am thankful. I am still in awe that I am even pregnant. I look forward to being a mother. And, I can sympathize with their grief and loss. But there is a lot of tip-toeing around pregnancy in social media, I’ve found, to protect the feelings of friends and acquaintances who struggle with pregnancy loss or infertility. Truth to tell, it drives me absolutely up a wall. I am not intentionally trying to hurt feelings or be insensitive; I’m sharing my experience. We all have struggles, wants, and unfulfilled hopes. You can ignore my pregnancy grievances—I don’t care about that, but don’t devalue my experiences because you haven’t had them. I guarantee that when these future mamas become pregnant, they too will complain about the discomforts, even if it’s in the quiet of their diaries.

Our daughter is due in late October, early November. I would someday love to give her a sibling, but the thought of another pregnancy makes me cringe right now. We are planning a homebirth for our daughter, and I’m hopeful it will be an experience more positive than the pregnancy.