When I first discovered I was expecting, I hadn’t yet come to terms with the fact that I was a survivor of sexual assault. Just a few hours after my child was conceived, I found myself in a therapist’s office with my partner, anxiously clasping his hand as she uttered the word “rape.” It was a term I had never associated with my past experience, which had occurred six years earlier. I had minimized that night, referring to it merely as “a regrettable mistake” or “being taken advantage of.” But now, the truth was undeniable: it was rape.
This revelation shook the very foundation of my world. For six years, I had unknowingly lived in a state of confusion and despair, unaware of the true source of my pain. Although I began to understand that I was not to blame, lingering feelings of guilt and shame clung to me like a stubborn stain. I immersed myself in self-help literature, repeating mantras like “it’s not my fault,” yet the weight of shame remained.
Two weeks later, I saw those two blue lines on a pregnancy test, a sign of the child my partner and I had been longing for. The joy was overwhelming, yet fear enveloped me. The initial months of my pregnancy were spent in a near-catatonic state, curled up on our couch. While the physical symptoms of pregnancy were manageable, my mental state was a different story. Anxiety surged within me, manifesting in behaviors I could easily attribute to pregnancy: isolating myself at home, binge-watching shows, and dodging calls from friends and family. It felt as if I was teetering on the brink of emotional collapse.
How could I engage in cheerful conversations about my pregnancy while harboring such a dark secret? I grappled with these thoughts, unsure of how to voice my pain. People often don’t want to hear about trauma, especially when you’re expected to radiate happiness about impending motherhood. When I did manage to share my feelings, I expressed my excitement and fears about childbirth, yet it felt like a façade. I was exhausted from concealing my truth, retreating into a protective bubble, determined to nurture the innocent life within me.
It wasn’t until near the end of my second trimester that I found the courage to consult a prenatal therapist. Her calming demeanor provided a safe space. Yet, weeks passed before I could finally articulate what had happened to me in the summer of 2008. With compassion, she listened and helped me confront another painful truth: I had also been sexually assaulted a month prior to the rape.
As my pregnancy progressed, I was confronted with the reality of having endured two violent violations. My sense of safety evaporated; everything felt threatening. Trust became a foreign concept. Compounding my anxiety was a crime wave in our neighborhood and my husband’s demanding schedule as a medical resident, leaving me feeling vulnerable and alone. Sleep eluded me, filled with nightmares that haunted my nights.
I felt trapped in a world rife with violence and evil, and the thought of bringing a child into such a reality was daunting. How could I protect my baby when I struggled to protect myself? Yet, I forced smiles for photographs, showcased my growing bump online, and attended baby showers, desperately clinging to fleeting moments of joy.
As my due date neared, the anxiety surrounding childbirth became nearly unbearable. I practiced self-hypnosis, meditation, and prayer, but it felt insufficient. The fear of being triggered during labor loomed large. I worried about the pain, the medical procedures, and the possibility of mental shutdown. What if I didn’t make it? What if my baby didn’t? I felt exposed and vulnerable.
Paradoxically, it was this vulnerability that opened the door to hope. Alongside my anxiety, a glimmer of redemption began to shine through. I pondered the timing of my son’s conception; it felt almost serendipitous that as I began to confront my past, he was developing within me. I reflected on the release I experienced upon recognizing my status as a survivor, feeling as though I was shedding years of burdensome falsehoods. This new life was a promise of renewal, emerging from love and joy shared with my partner.
Throughout my pregnancy, I sensed a divine presence guiding me. I grew confident that I would not only survive childbirth but would also welcome a healthy, beautiful child into the world. My fears began to dissipate, giving way to gratitude as the sun shone brighter and the world became vibrant again. I envisioned the adventures, stories, and love my son and I would share.
Today, my son is nearly 18 months old—a lively, joyful child with a contagious smile. Despite the anxiety I faced during pregnancy, his arrival was relatively smooth. There was pain and fear, but I persevered. In the end, the most precious gift was in my arms.
So, why share this deeply personal journey? Because I know I’m not alone in feeling broken and afraid. I want to be a beacon of hope, illustrating that the darkness will not prevail. I reach out to fellow survivors, reminding them that they are not alone. I aim to teach my son by example, encouraging him to confront his past without fear.
This journey isn’t over. I still grapple with anxiety, aware that despite my best efforts, I cannot shield my child from all harm. Each day is an exercise in trust and faith. One day, I’ll tell my son about the half marathon I walked while eight months pregnant, through the stunning beauty of Stanley Park, all the while thinking of him and wanting to show him his mother’s strength. He has taught me bravery.
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Summary
This narrative explores my experience as a survivor of sexual assault who faced intense anxiety during pregnancy. Through therapy and self-reflection, I confronted my past while preparing to welcome my child. The journey has been fraught with challenges, but ultimately, it has led to hope, healing, and the realization that I can be a strong mother despite my fears.