My Husband and I Finally Had the Talk…

After pouring my heart out on Medium, asking for your perspectives as husbands and partners about being in the delivery room during childbirth, I want to start by saying thank you.

Your advice and stories helped me realize just how diverse and deeply personal this experience is for every couple. They also gave me the courage to have an honest conversation with my husband — something I’ve been avoiding, mostly because I’ve been swimming in my own sea of insecurities.

Let’s rewind a bit.

That conversation didn’t happen immediately after my post.

It started late one night when my husband came home from work, exhausted and mentally drained. As soon as he walked in, we fell into our usual routine: heading to bed, me with my Kindle, him with his phone. Normally, I don’t ask what he’s doing, but this time, curiosity got the best of me.

“Flashcards,” he muttered, without looking up. Turns out, his residency requires an annual practice board exam, and not only do the scores get shared, but they’re also a source of judgment and competition among colleagues.

No pressure, right?

So there we were — me reading, him studying — when I blurted out a question I hadn’t dared ask before: “Does me being pregnant freak you out?”

Cue his blank stare.

Clearly, this wasn’t on his mental flashcard deck. He stumbled through a hesitant “No,” but before he could elaborate, I interrupted with, “Because I can’t help that I’m getting bigger.” And just like that, the dam broke, and I started sobbing.

To his credit, he handled it better than I expected. He immediately clarified: “I don’t think anything like that. I talk about your food because I’m worried about you and the health of the baby. We’ve never gotten this far.” (A subtle, heartbreaking nod to our IVF journey.) He added, “I don’t think you’re fat, even though you keep thinking I think that.”

That comment hit me like a ton of bricks because I realized I had been holding onto a hurtful thing he said months ago, right before we restarted IVF. He joked about how I’d “just get fat again,” and while I know now it was a poor attempt at humor — a coping mechanism for the pain of yet another failed cycle — it had left a scar.

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That night ended quietly.

He apologized, and I read until my tears dried and I fell asleep. But the next morning, he texted me, asking if we could go out to dinner since he’d be flipping to night shifts and wouldn’t see me for a while.

Over dinner, the conversation turned to the pregnancy.

He asked me how I’d been feeling, and for the first time, we really talked about the birth plan. No sugarcoating. No Instagram-filtered idealism. Just two terrified, overwhelmed people trying to figure out how to navigate an event that’s supposed to be magical but is also — let’s be honest — kind of horrifying.

We came to a decision: He’ll be in the delivery room, but his eyes will stay locked on mine. He might be a doctor, but even he admitted that watching his wife give birth would be a whole new level of intense, one he wasn’t sure he wanted to experience. But he also recognized that being there, holding my hand, is something that could unite us even further.

We also talked through other aspects of the birth plan — epidurals, c-sections, and those terrifying “what-if” scenarios where we’d have to choose between me and the baby.

It wasn’t easy, but it was necessary, and it felt like we were finally on the same page.

What stuck with me most wasn’t the logistics or even the relief I felt about him being there. It was what he said about coming home to see the nursery nearly finished. He confessed that while he was proud I could handle it alone, it was a painful reminder of how much he misses out on because of his career. “It hurts,” he admitted, “but I need a partner who can do all this without resenting me.”

When we got home, he went into the nursery, picked up a few baby books, and laid on the floor with one of our dogs. I stood in the doorway, heart full, imagining the rare but beautiful moments we’ll share as a family in that room once our baby girl arrives.

This journey hasn’t been perfect.

It’s been messy and raw, full of tears, miscommunication, and late-night Kindle sessions. But I can finally say I feel seen. Loved. Supported. And, for the first time in a while, hopeful.

So, thank you again for your advice and perspectives.

Your words gave me the push I needed to have this conversation, to let go of my pity party, and to realize that this pregnancy isn’t just happening to me — it’s happening to us. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll come out of it stronger than ever.

Here’s to the chaos, the compromises, and the countless flashcards.

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Hi, I’m Fiona, a writer going through an unexpected chapter in life.

I lost my job in April 2024, and my husband and I have been getting by on his small medical residency income. After stepping away from IVF, we were surprised and overjoyed to find ourselves pregnant, but it’s added financial stress as we prepare for this new journey.

Writing is my way of contributing to our family while covering essentials like groceries, bills and maybe items for our 🌈 miracle baby.

If you’d like to support us, your kindness would mean the world — every little bit helps. $1, $2…Anything is appreciated. Donate here (Venmo).

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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