This post reflects my personal experience with pregnancy, birth, and postpartum. Every journey is different.
I was always scared of giving birth. I think that fear lived somewhere in me since I was young. I heard all the birth stories and saw the movies. I always knew it would be intense. In my early twenties, I used to say I didn’t want kids, and looking back, it wasn’t because I didn’t want a family. It was because I was absolutely terrified of labor.
But boy was I wrong about almost everything.
The truly scary parts weren’t birth.
They were the before and the after.
When I saw the two lines on the test, my eyes lit up. I cried happy tears. I had met the right person. Someone who made me willing to face my fear so we could start a family together. I imagined a cute bump, flowy dresses, a beautiful glowing pregnant version of myself.
But I never imagined the exhaustion.
Before I even started showing, I was already depleted. Making a piece of avocado toast felt like a full task. I needed constant rest. I had completely underestimated how much effort it takes to grow a human.
I had heard about cravings and thought they sounded funny. What weird thing will I want?
But it wasn’t cravings. It was hunger. Violent and painful hunger. The kind that twisted my stomach and crawled up my throat. Hunger that could only be satisfied by that exact food, nothing else. Every night around 3 or 4 a.m., I’d wake up feeling like I would pass out if I didn’t eat a bowl of cereal.
Even with my partner beside me, who is someone I could wake up at any moment for help. I felt deeply alone. Because no one could feel it for me. The exhaustion. The insomnia. The constant pressure on my bladder. My baby squishing my insides. The pain of turning from one side to the other. My eyes were heavy, but rest never came. Sitting, standing, lying down. Nothing helped. It was pure exhaustion without relief.
My feet ended up growing two full sizes. My hands were so swollen I couldn’t hold his. I was miserable. But still so excited to meet my baby. I remember thinking, I don’t care how tired I am once he’s here. At least I won’t feel lonely anymore.
Then birth came.
It was hard. Exactly as hard as I expected. Maybe even worse. The contractions didn’t feel like bad cramps. They felt like someone hitting my lower back with a hammer. Not skin. Not muscle. Bone. Over and over. It was excruciating.
And then my baby was here.
It truly felt like I traveled through the universe, chose his soul, and brought it back with me. Hearing his cry for the first time, feeling him placed on my chest, searching, feeding. It was the most euphoric experience of my life.
Then came the healing.
I knew recovery would hurt. We all prepare for that part. The pads, the witch hazel, the numbing spray. But my body was injured in a way I had never even heard discussed. The kind of thing no one warns you might happen. It made my healing feel isolating. Walking was slow and painful. I hated not being able to jump up when he needed me. I was angry at my body for not working the way I wanted it to.
I wish I could go back and tell myself to be gentle. To rest. To stop fighting my own healing. But all I wanted was to feel normal again.
When my milk came in, I developed DMER—something I had never even heard of. I exclusively pumped for six months, every three to four hours. And every single time I pumped, a wave of sadness and anxiety washed over me. It sat in my stomach. I had to breathe through it, over and over.
I knew I could stop. I knew formula was an option. But my mind wouldn’t let me. I told myself, If my body is making milk, why wouldn’t I give it to him?
And then there were the monsters no one really prepares you for: postpartum anxiety. Depression. Rage.
Postpartum was something I could never have planned for. I thought I was ready with my little basket of supplies.
I wasn’t.
Everyone says they’ll help. “Let us know if you need anything.”
What they usually mean is that they just want to come hold the baby.
I knew myself well enough to set one boundary early on: no visitors until we figured out our routine. At least two weeks. I also chose not to have anyone at the hospital. I’m grateful I listened to my instinct.
My partner kept offering solutions. A night nurse. A cleaning lady. Help. And every suggestion made me angry, so so angry. I wanted to be with my baby. I wanted to take care of my own home. I wanted to do it all myself. Why didn’t he get that? Why would I give my baby to someone else at night? Waking up wasn’t even the hardest part. It was my body. The slowness. The pain. The way everything took so much effort.
Looking back, it must have been my hormones talking. Or survival mode. Because now, on the other side, I think: why didn’t I just say yes?
I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was learning how to be a mother while still bleeding, healing, leaking, and breaking open. I thought needing help meant failing.
I’m out of those stages now. I’m stronger. I’m healed. I can carry my baby, move freely, and actually enjoy my days. I’m having the time of my life in motherhood in a way I couldn’t have ever imagined.
But pregnancy and postpartum were worlds I wasn’t prepared for. Physically, emotionally, or mentally. Birth was a moment. Those seasons were a transformation. And even though they stripped me down in ways that scared me, they also built me into someone new. Someone steadier. More patient. More rooted.
This is what it took to arrive here, and I honor every part of it. But I do wish we talked more honestly about what it takes to get here, without sugarcoating the cost.