This photograph captures me at 28 weeks pregnant, just before heading to an ultrasound to check on my baby boy. I felt joyful, at ease, and even confident about my appearance—so much so that I wanted to document the moment. After seeing my child on the ultrasound, measuring ahead of schedule, my pride in my belly for nurturing a healthy baby soared even higher.
However, a few hours later, during a prenatal massage, the therapist asked how far along I was. Upon hearing my answer, her surprised reaction stung: “Oh, wow. You have quite a ways to go. Are you expecting twins?” No, I wasn’t. In an instant, the happiness and confidence I felt dissipated. My earlier pride now felt misplaced, and I found myself embarrassed, battling feelings of guilt and shame over my appearance.
Over the past year, I’ve spent more time pregnant than not. After losing my first baby at 21 weeks, I somehow managed to conceive again less than three months later, all while still entrenched in grief. My body had no chance to recover from the trauma. I carried a baby past the halfway point, only to lose her, which was emotionally devastating. Physically, I endured the aftermath of that loss—postpartum hormones, bleeding, abdominal cramps, and the agonizing reality of having milk come in without a baby to nourish. Even when the weight dropped due to my sadness, my postpartum belly remained, a constant reminder that I should be pregnant but wasn’t. I learned a great deal about my body’s resilience during those weeks, but I also internalized the guilt that often accompanies losing a baby, no matter the gestational stage.
I viewed my body with disappointment and anger. I feared intimacy, convinced that my body would fail me again in conception. But it didn’t. I conceived so quickly that doubts about my body’s ability to sustain the pregnancy loomed large. The first trimester was riddled with anxiety and self-loathing. Yet, as the weeks progressed, I began to believe that perhaps my body wouldn’t betray me this time, and that the baby growing within me could indeed become the child I would hold after 40 weeks. I started to embrace the awe of my body’s strength and resilience.
What the massage therapist failed to recognize was the long, painful journey I had traveled to reach this stage of pregnancy, where I felt happiness again. She couldn’t see that the life inside me was reviving me from depths of grief. My body wasn’t just carrying one baby; it was also carrying the memory of another, along with the hopes of building a family. While she or anyone else may never understand my full story, I do—and my perspective is the only one that truly matters. My body has never failed me; the real failure was in my perception of its incredible capabilities.
The reality is, we all carry something significant. It might be the promise of new life, the weight of past loss, or perhaps a mix of both. Emotions of fear, hope, joy, and pain intertwine within us all. Whatever you’re carrying, it certainly holds more meaning than merely what you see in the mirror.
For those navigating similar experiences, this blog post offers insights on fertility journeys, and this resource is an excellent guide for understanding pregnancy and home insemination. Additionally, if you’re curious about the significance of your baby’s gestures, this article provides valuable insights.
In summary, the journey through pregnancy and loss is deeply personal and complex, marked by a blend of emotions that shape our understanding of ourselves and our bodies. It’s essential to honor our experiences and recognize that true worth lies beyond surface appearances.