Pregnancy Is a Nightmare

We got out.

We escaped.

My husband and I packed up and went to Boston, MA — his hometown, his family’s home base, and now, our much-needed refuge. And let me tell you, it was the best thing we could have done for our minds and bodies.

Because lately?

I’ve felt like absolute garbage.

Not just the “oh, I’m a little tired” kind of garbage, but the “everything hurts, my belly is a planet, and I no longer recognize my own body” kind.

And the worst part?

The guilt.

The deep, soul-crushing guilt that comes with admitting that pregnancy — this thing I have dreamed about, prayed for, longed for — is, in this moment, something I desperately wish I could pause.

They tell you the second trimester is the golden era of pregnancy, and wow, were they right. I was thriving, glowing, energized.

Now?

Now I feel like a human bowling ball with sore feet, a bad back, and emotions that swing wildly between awe and existential dread. Yesterday, I cried — a lot — because I hate how I feel. And then I cried more because I felt like an awful person for even admitting that.

But here’s the thing: I still wouldn’t change this for the world.

And that, right there, is the complicated, infuriating, messy truth of pregnancy.

The Lies We Tell Pregnant Women

Society loves to sell us this picture-perfect idea of pregnancy — soft-focus maternity shoots, glowing skin, serene moments of bonding with your unborn child.

And sure, those moments exist.

But what about the ones where you’re sobbing on the bathroom floor because your body no longer feels like your own?

Or the ones where fear creeps in, whispering about labor, about delivery, about all the ways your life is about to permanently change?

We don’t talk enough about that part.

Because God forbid a pregnant woman express anything other than gratitude.

The Guilt That Comes With Honesty

Here’s the toxic little voice that’s been haunting me: You wanted this for years. How dare you complain now?

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And I know I’m not alone.

Every woman who has ever carried a child has, at some point, had a moment where they wished they could fast-forward through the discomfort, the exhaustion, the sheer physical toll of it all. But we’re conditioned to keep those thoughts to ourselves because admitting them feels like admitting failure. Like we’re bad moms before we’ve even started.

But that’s a lie.

Feeling miserable doesn’t make you a bad mother. It makes you human. You can simultaneously want your baby with every fiber of your being and also desperately wish for the pregnancy part to be over. Those two things can coexist.

The Fear of What’s Coming

For months, the idea of labor was just this abstract concept — something that would happen eventually. Now, it’s hurtling toward me like a freight train, and I’m realizing, in real-time, that there is no turning back. This baby girl is coming, and I have to get her here.

That reality is no longer distant.

It’s weeks away.

And I’m scared.

Scared of the pain.

Scared of the unknown.

Scared of how my body will change again, of how my life will never be the same. And yet, despite all that fear, despite the exhaustion, despite the tears — I still wouldn’t trade this for anything.

Let’s Be Honest With Each Other

So to every pregnant woman who has ever sat in silence, afraid to admit that she feels like crap, let me say it for you: Pregnancy is hard. You are allowed to struggle. You are allowed to hate it some days. And that doesn’t make you any less of a mother.

We have to start normalizing these conversations.

We have to stop shaming women for having complicated feelings about a process that literally changes their entire existence. Because if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s this: I may be crying my way through the third trimester, but I’m also counting down the days until I get to hold this little girl in my arms.

And that’s the real truth about pregnancy: It’s brutal, it’s beautiful, and it’s both at the same time.

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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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