As restrictions ease, my older kids are finally enjoying summer camps, playing sports without masks, and reconnecting with friends. I’m vaccinated, which allows me to grocery shop without anxiety, stroll through stores with a coffee, and even join a spin class. Thankfully, I didn’t lose anyone to COVID; instead, I welcomed my fourth child into the world.
I discovered I was pregnant with a wonderful little girl just two weeks before lockdown began. For thirty-eight weeks, I held my breath, isolated my family, attended prenatal appointments alone, and even labored while wearing a mask. I did it! My family stayed safe from COVID, my baby arrived without complications, and we have remained healthy. Yet, as life begins to resemble normalcy again, I can’t shake this feeling of disarray.
It feels like a tidal wave of emotion surges within me, which I try to suppress by diving into the daily grind of motherhood and savoring moments with my kids. But then, while unwrapping a string cheese, memories hit me—like last spring when I was home alone with my three kids, battling severe nausea, juggling remote schooling, and feeling isolated from loved ones. I recall attending my anatomy scan the day after the CDC warned that pregnant women faced heightened risks for COVID complications, and how challenging it was to manage my fears while keeping my family safe and grounded.
The burden of making decisions for our expanding family weighed heavily on me, especially when others may not have understood the gravity of the situation. Carrying another life amid a global crisis, with everyone grappling with their own fears and expectations, was overwhelming. When these feelings bubble up unexpectedly, I find myself focusing on the mundane task at hand, like that string cheese. I complete the task and quickly move on, as confronting those feelings feels too daunting right now.
Social situations feel odd, but I know I’m not alone in this. I’m relieved to host gatherings and attend events, yet there are moments when I feel an inexplicable urge to gather my four kids and seek refuge indoors. I can’t pinpoint what’s triggering these feelings, but they arise nonetheless.
I find myself holding tightly to my eight-month-old daughter, whom I affectionately call my “emotional support baby.” She stays close to me, and I only feel comfortable leaving her with my husband—unlike my older children, whom I could leave with others. I worked tirelessly to keep her safe for so long, and the thought of letting go is frightening. I struggle to trust that anyone else can keep her as protected as I can, but I’m trying to work through it. There’s an indescribable bond with a baby who grew inside you during a pandemic, and it has undoubtedly changed me.
One day, I may work through these emotional waves, or perhaps they’ll gradually fade with time. For now, I feel off-kilter, different, and not entirely okay. But I’m giving myself the grace to sit with these feelings for a while, and I encourage you to do the same—because wow, that was truly tough. Moving on won’t be easy.
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