I'm Pregnant! ... Now What?
Navigating the intimacy of matrescence and deciding when to reveal my pregnancy.
As soon as my husband and I saw my positive pregnancy stick in November of 2023, I felt like I wanted to preserve it in a time capsule — like this little piece of plastic was a vessel for all of my secrets. After experiencing an early pregnancy loss in August of 2023, after we had shouted “We’re pregnant!” from the rooftops, this new Clear Blue beacon of light felt like an intimate extension of our lives that we weren’t sure we ever wanted to share this time around.
I know that I am not under any sort of social obligation to share details of my personal life outside of my trusted bubble, despite the urgency of social media. I know that there is no formal social contract in place that commands me answer every question I am asked about my family, or my future family, that I may or may not plan to make (or even be able to make).
There is really no meaningful consequence for refusing to answer such questions that I am often told are generally well-meaning queries, except maybe I’ll receive a grimace for being “stuffy” about keeping it all to myself.
There is, however, power in protecting private moments, especially in pregnancy when everything is new and unexplainable, and when life is completely rearranged to make space for another.
The Road to Nosiness is Paved with Good Intentions (Apparently)
Thinking about announcing my pregnancy in this surge of hormonal chaos feels like I’m unveiling a part of myself that I’m not sure everyone actually wants to see. I’m grappling with trying to determine who is well-meaning and who is just, well, nosy.
Does everyone really want to know about the rawness of it all? How I don’t feel rosy and cozy just quite yet? Is that socially acceptable conversation? To be honest about my thoughts that are currently fraying?
I can’t yet separate the mess from the magic. I feel like I’m in a fever dream, little me in elementary school but I forgot to put on my pants — again.
There was first the classic “What are your future plans? Do you have a job?” line of querying that is both understandable yet tedious after graduating from school. This type of questioning quickly turned into the more cringeworthy inquisition, “Do you have a boyfriend?”
After said boyfriend was acquired, the questions became, “When are you getting married?” Which of course after nuptials has now led to, “When are you having kids?”
Have we normalized nosiness? Am I being too sensitive? (probably)
Does it make it okay? (no, no not quite)
The answers to all of these questions demand the revelation of secrets. Intimate parts of the human experience that cannot be contained by the walls of small talk. With the topic of pregnancy, these types of questions have only become more perpetual and difficult to wade through.
I don’t have the answers. Please don’t be mad if I don’t have a response. Or if I don’t want to give one.
Unable to placate conversations about my womb, like I have been able to about other parts of my life, the grappling has required me to find an inner peace about holding what is near and dear to me without feeling guilty for doing so.
I Didn’t Know If I Could Bear Children
Before I even considered having kids, I didn’t know if I could have kids. Physiologically. Anatomically. Psychologically. Fertility is private health information. My womb is not an open invitation for discussion about my being and existence. And for those who struggle with fertility issues, the “Do you want kids?” and “When are you having kids?” questions are knives to the heart every single time they are asked.
I feel compassion for those receiving these questions; and I am not sensitive to offending the asker with the only appropriate response of, “That is none of your business.” This line of questioning is similarly abrasive to those who have opted to not have children.
I hope you feel empowered to suppress the urge the explain yourself to anyone who doesn’t know your heart before they know your uterus. Harnessing that power has helped me dodge such peculiar inquiries.
I Didn’t Want to Tell You I Was Pregnant Because I Didn’t Want to Un-tell You
As I mentioned in my introduction, my husband and I created our first life in August of 2023, a month after we got married. It happened faster than we imagined and we were absolutely unprepared for the tidal wave of emotions that struck upon our first positive pregnancy test. We told our immediate family the same day. We told a small group of friends in our community later that night who we already had plans with.
We indeed regretted shouting this news from the rooftops a week later when I miscarried.
Un-telling people I was pregnant was undoubtedly the most painful thing I have ever had to communicate. My husband bore the brunt of the bad news while I cried in bed for days. Many of the small few who knew didn’t reach out upon learning our new revelation — I will always remember who did and who didn’t. And it was in this experience that I realized not everyone can, or should, hold your heart for you.
We created our second life in October of 2023. A rainbow baby formed so soon after the first that we felt overwhelmed by gratitude and overcome with possessing time. We wanted to keep the news for ourselves, for a little while. To make sense of everything that happened before. To learn how to grapple with the anxiety of “What if it happens again?” To make sense of what is happening now.
I Couldn’t Talk About Pregnancy Until I Started to Understand It Myself
My first trimester was a blackhole. I was obviously ecstatic to be carrying my child, but I didn’t feel pregnant. I was nauseous all day. I lost 10 pounds in two months because I couldn’t eat. My daily meal intake was a smashed banana and a handful of goldfish. Brushing my teeth made me vomit. I knew “morning sickness” was the most common first trimester symptom, but I had no idea how debilitating it would be, and that it was in fact all day sickness. Nothing helped. Not even 20 bags of ginger tea. Not even the weird remedy I found on Reddit.
When you can’t find it on Reddit, you know you’re doomed.
Every pregnancy is different, but my first trimester was brutal. I was in bed all of November. I couldn’t walk my dog or leave my house. I spent Thanksgiving alone because I couldn’t travel or smell any cooked foods. I wasn’t thinking about nursery ideas because I couldn’t think beyond my crippling uselessness.
Things are getting better. I’m unraveling myself more. I’m becoming more excited, sharing more of my story, and now I’m here on Substack releasing it all because suddenly, I feel ready. On my terms. On my time.
Matrescence is hard. Transforming my entire life and watching my body make new shapes is hard.
It is hard to grapple with responding to questions I don’t know the answer to. It is hard to navigate social interactions about my most intimate experiences. It is hard to know how to feel, how to cope, how to direct my grievances.
I’m excited for the day it all clicks — to share more stories, of my choosing, as I soften. I’m excited to soften. I’m excited for my little fetus in utero to feel like mine.
I’m excited for everything that lies ahead.
Xo,
Violet Carol
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Mother Love Letters posts include personal essays, poems, and journaling prompts on matrescence and identity.
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