The internet almost scared me out of having a baby.

By the time I reached my early 30s, I had read every miserable Facebook post from people I knew with kids, ranting about never being able to sleep past 5 a.m. or returning to work with the haze of “mom brain.” I had clicked on articles that promised the “real truth” about painful postpartum sex or about losing friends when your baby takes over your social life.

My husband and I weren’t sure if we wanted a child. We waited until we felt as though we could endure the hits we were warned would come with a new baby. A joint account labeled “possible family or vacation” had slowly swelled since we’d become engaged eight years earlier, and we’d reached a steady place in our careers and our relationship. We didn’t have a clear reason to try for a baby, but we also didn’t have one not to.

Still, I read so much about infertility that after 20 years on the pill, I doubted whether I could conceive at all. Eventually, two faint pink lines overruled that concern, and I began worrying about miscarriage rates instead.

I spent nine months bracing for the worst. I kept a list of over 350 things I Googled, from “tips for telling boss about pregnancy” to “leaking boobs second trimester” and “can you drink kombucha while pregnant.” I followed three pregnancy podcasts, two daily pregnancy apps, a weekly live chat on pregnancy nutrition and dozens of Instagram accounts and message boards. After listening to an episode of “Preggie Pals,” I became convinced that I was at risk of short, precipitous labor and brought it up at every doctor’s appointment. An article from Whole Mamas persuaded me to give up sugar out of concern about gestational diabetes.