to 35, to fear, and to gratitude.

closing out my 34th year and my journey to motherhood ~ fear, loss, & faith.

On November 3rd, I turned 35 years old.

It was the first birthday that didn’t FEEL like it was my birthday.

I think because I have been so wrapped up in this whole baby thing, it’s been hard to remember that there’s still a person behind (well, currently… around?) the baby.

There’s been so many moments of pregnancy where everything I’ve heard or understood about mother starts to click - and I know there’s a lot more ahead of me. I’m inherently a deep thinker so for months, I’ve sat here like, “OMG, you really become a mother way before the baby even comes out of the womb.”

Like you monitor your caffeine intake, you stop drinking and eating certain foods cold turkey (pun intended), and you focus on “how will this decision affect my pregnancy and my future baby.” You think it starts when you give birth but it starts the second you see that extra line on that stick. And it never really ends, does it, moms?

Somewhere between surviving three trimesters, planning a baby shower, getting life ready for baby, trying to complete my 200hr yoga teacher training, and working up until my maternity leave (which, as a contractor, is just extended unpaid time off), I turned the page on another year.

I usually wake up on my birthday and begin to think about how far I’ve come and how much more is ahead of me. I wake up with a sensation of hope and optimism, and for some odd reason, I have more knowledge than ever. Which … I suppose, does track? We have more knowledge today than we did yesterday.

This year I woke up and just felt kind of neutral. I had had a really overwhelming week leading up to my birthday, which involved a trip to Labor & Delivery triage for a scare, my car’s transmission failing, and not knowing if I was going to have a contract job to return to as major shifts were happening within the department — all on a Monday, mind you. I ended the week on a very high note as I was able to trade in my car for something better for our family and I got a full-time role offer to come back to when my leave is done.

I guess I just woke up on my birthday exhausted but relieved that the week worked out the way it did.

Plus, one of my best friends brought me tea in the morning and sat and caught up with me for a bit, and another met Joe and me out for dinner — hot wings so I could sweat the baby out. There was no big celebration that I usually crave. I desired to share a birthday with the little man this year, maybe, but he wasn’t so keen on the idea.

As of writing this on November 11th, he’s still in there cooking, which now I can say honestly feels like a good thing because I can be selfish for a little longer and talk about my journey to motherhood.

11/11, 38w5d pregnant with baby boy sitting as low as possible & swollen feet.

I struggled with fear during my entire first trimester.

I don’t often talk about this, but I have had two miscarriages in my life.

The first was when I was a teenager. I never wanted to be “16 and pregnant,” so instead, I got to be “17 and pregnant.” I’m not proud of it. The experience itself was damaging in many ways - it put a strain on my relationship with my Catholic mom and family, it was tough to be nauseous in biology while dissecting a pig, it hurt my reputation at school, and I constantly felt like I was fending for myself because the father wasn’t even my boyfriend.

I remember my prom date calling me and telling me he didn’t want to go to prom with me anymore because he didn’t want people to think he was the dad. I bawled my eyes out but instead said, “ok, that’s fine.”

My mom had already forced me to tell the school and so many of her friends and our family without my permission because I was only 17 years old, and I didn’t “get” to have any say or authority in how it all went down. The only thing I asked of her was to not tell my dad, who was fighting stage 4 liver cancer.

The last time I saw my dad alive, I was in my first trimester, and I slept most of our visit because I couldn’t keep my eyes open. He was so sick - shriveled down to bones basically - and there I was, sound asleep on the couch.

A few weeks later, when I should’ve been about 12 weeks, I went for my viability ultrasound, and we discovered that the baby had no heartbeat and stopped growing at 8 weeks.

Even though this was a huge point of contention between my mom and I, we both left that appointment in tears. I have always considered it a blessing in disguise because it gave me my life back. Sure, I still had to do damage control, knowing my name would always be associated with being a pregnant teen at a Catholic school, but I felt like this was my greatest redirection.

The second miscarriage, we still aren’t sure about. I was in my 20s and had been experiencing a month-long menstrual cycle and abdominal pain. I went to the emergency room, and they determined it to be either a ruptured ovarian cyst or an ectopic pregnancy that, fortunately, saw its way out. I still don’t know which one it is, but I say “miscarriage” to err on the side of caution.

When Joe and I started trying to conceive, these past experiences began to haunt me. What if these blessings in disguise were actually hinting at a greater problem? What if I was infertile? I miscarried twice when I was supposed to be the most fertile. What if I continued to miscarry?

I got on anxiety medicine and made an appointment with maternal-fetal medicine to see if I could even get pregnant; however, during that time of planning, I got pregnant.

Even though the news was exciting, I was still skeptical. They make you wait SO long for your first OB appointment, figuring that if something happens in that first trimester, then there is nothing they can do to stop it. At my first ultrasound, I couldn’t help but prepare for the worst. I had conjured up repressed memories from my first ultrasound at 17, where the tech said she couldn’t find a heartbeat and that this “would not be a good pregnancy.”

This time, my tech scanned my belly as I lay there with my fingers crossed.

“There’s baby,” she said. “And looks like we have a good heartbeat.”

Instant tears. Instant gratitude.

We began sharing the news in the following weeks, yet I couldn’t shake that something would happen. I would have constant panic attacks and nightmares about losing the baby or someone being so disappointed in me all over again.

I started going to therapy once every week to get my head on straight. I told my therapist how I’d been feeling, and she offered to work through it with me in an EMDR session.

During the session, I saw that last visit with my dad. I saw the many arguments with my mom. I saw me bawling and burrowing myself into my closet trying to make myself as small as possible when my prom date said he didn’t want to go to prom with me. I could feel the embarrassment and humiliation and deep, deep sadness return. And in working through it, I said, “I finally get to control the narrative.”

This time, this pregnancy was about ME. I’ve wanted this my whole life and on my terms. And this was finally my time.

I spent years watching everyone else in my life have babies, and even though I always shared in their joy, I couldn’t help but feel so sad that I didn’t get to have the experience yet. Now, it was finally happening, but with someone I love and admire so much, and I was finally in a place to receive this blessing.

I get to have this pregnancy for me.

What I’ve learned…

There will always be fear.

There was a period of time at about 26 weeks when I couldn’t feel baby fluttering around like I used to. We raced to triage and as soon as they set me up on the monitor, baby began his activity for the day… way to start at 4:30 pm, buddy.

As long as I’m alive, I will be worried about my child and his safety.

I’ve told myself that this is OK, as long as I wasn’t allowing it to consume me in the way it did in my first trimester.

It’s wild to think I spent so much time becoming more grounded, more mindful and aware, yet this experience has opened up new territory for me. I find myself praying for faith; for more strength to trust in the Universe and God’s plan much more than ever before.

Even thinking about my birthing plan - I’ve had the most perfect plan laid out since the beginning of my pregnancy, but I’ve also had to remind myself to be open to change as long as it is in my and baby’s best interest.

The things I used to preach and coach people on have become some of the hardest things for me to practice, and it’s OK.

I have moved on to a new chapter.

I have new lessons to learn.

I have new fears to unlock.

But I also have gratitude and a willingness to let each day be what it is.

Maybe that’s why closing out my 34th year felt so different. Because I, myself, am different.

In a sense, I’m who I’ve always been, yet I’m a total stranger all because of someone I have yet to meet.

I am so excited to ring in my 35th year with Joe and our baby.

Of all the roles and positions I’ve held in my life, “Mom” will be the most rewarding.

Hopefully, the next time you hear from me, it’ll be during feedings and nap time. I hope you stick around!