Content warning: This article discusses pregnancy loss and may be upsetting to some readers.

Three days before my 30th birthday, I woke up as I had every morning the past three weeks: I hit snooze, exhausted thanks to all the extra hormones in my body. I chugged some water, dehydrated from the prenatal vitamin I had taken the night before. And I stared through the dark into the bathroom mirror, gazing into my own eyes and marveling at the fact that these were the eyes of a pregnant person. I was a pregnant person.

And then I peed. 

Every morning, it was the same routine: Snooze, drink, gaze, pee. And for three weeks, everything was okay. Everything was more than OK. I walked around glowing from sheer happiness since it was far too early to be actually glowing from pregnancy. I took naps, saying it was for the baby, before drooling on the couch while my husband indulgently brushed my hair off my face. My husband and I took long walks, and we giddily talked about what we needed to do. Decorate a nursery, of course. But we also needed to get the dogs adequately trained and decide how we’d divide responsibilities. Oh, and names! We needed names. What do you think of the name Leila? “I’ve always liked the name Leila,” my husband said, squeezing my hand in his. 

I was thinking about names that morning when I peed. I was thinking about the name Leila when I saw the red.

That’s about where the dreamy, movie vibes of my pregnancy ended. You see, even though I was an adult, a woman, and actively trying to conceive (or “TTC,” as you’ll quickly learn in the forums you dive into in the middle of the night when your boobs ache and your neuroses keep you up), I knew very little about actually being pregnant and even less about having a miscarriage. What I did know, I’d seen in movies. 

Whenever a miscarriage happens on-screen—if it’s even shown—a maiden-esque girl (I say girl because she’s usually way younger than 30, aka a mere child in my eyes) typically wakes up in a shock to find a puddle of blood under her. For me, there was no puddle. No nightmare shock. Just a little bit of period-like blood when I peed. Just that tiny trickle. The light was off, so it didn’t seem like anything for a second. “I’m dehydrated,” I thought before flicking the overhead on just to check. Just to make sure.

And then it wasn’t dehydration. 

After stuffing a wad of toilet paper in my underwear—tampons seemed like a mistake, and I hadn’t worn pads since I was 14—I walked into the dark bedroom I share with my husband and told him the dark news. He didn’t know what to say. We sat there confused and sad, still sleepy enough to where it could just be a dream. 

Once I saw the blood that morning, I figured that was it. Bam! Miscarriage. I cried. I left a message at my doctor’s office. And then I answered some emails. “It’s over,” I thought as I wished everyone in my inbox a happy Thursday. “That’s the end.”

When a miscarriage happens on-screen, the woman bleeds, immediately knows it’s a miscarriage, and moves on with the sad part. She tells her partner she lost the baby, and she curls up in a ball, crying and clutching her stomach. So when my doctor called me back and sent me to the ER, I was at a loss. It had already happened. The pregnancy was over. Hadn’t she seen The Other Boleyn Girl? I bled. The baby was gone.

Except it wasn’t. So I found the closest hospital that took our insurance. I messaged my editors from my phone, asking for extensions as we settled into the car. I directed my husband to the ER while he drove, commenting on the new restaurant I wanted to try, where I get my nails done, and the gas station with the best Diet Coke as we passed. I was fine.

And I was fine when we walked through security, telling the woman who searched my bag that I was there to check in. I was fine as the front desk ran my insurance, and I was fine as my blood pressure was taken and a COVID test was given.

And then the nurse asked how far along I was—and I was no longer fine.

We waited through blood tests, urine tests, and ultrasounds for the next six hours. I was given IVs of fluid and scratchy socks to keep my toes warm. One nurse assured me everything would be okay. The other nurse said nothing. 

After a day full of non-answers, the ER doctor said I was having a “threatened miscarriage.” The bleeding could result from a subchorionic hematoma (bleeding under the uterus membrane), or it could be impending pregnancy loss. They didn’t know. In the movies, the couple leaves, devastated by the news, but they get to move on. They look at the baby shoes they had purchased on a whim and cry, but they start moving on.

But for us—and for many other couples—it was simply a TBD. We were told to schedule a follow-up doctor’s appointment, abstain from sex, take it easy, and wait. Just wait. 

So, that’s what we did. We waited. My 30th birthday came and went that Sunday, and all I wished for was answers, one way or another. When we went to the gynecologist the following day, the nurse taking me back said she didn’t know whether or not to wish me a happy birthday. I said nothing. I didn’t know. I waited. The doctor came in, and I turned my face to the wall as she conducted an intravaginal ultrasound on me. I didn’t want to see it. I didn’t need to see it.

But then, she said she saw it—thee amniotic sac, the embryo, the dark area that looked like a heartbeat. It was too early to tell, she explained, her voice brighter and her spine more relaxed, but a little bit longer, and it should show up on-screen. All that was left was a quick blood test, and we’d be out of there, two happy parents-to-be. The movie turned bright. It was just a scare! Whew!

Except the blood test was the real determining factor. For many people IRL, you don’t just get an answer that you’re having a miscarriage then and there like it seems on-screen. Your HCG (human chorionic gonadotropin) levels—the hormone present when you’re, you know, growing a human—are checked and then checked again. And again. And maybe again. In early pregnancy, these levels should double or triple every day or so. If they don’t, that’s often an indicator something isn’t right. 

When Charlotte lost her baby in Sex and the City, she didn’t spend the next 24 hours refreshing her patient portal to see if her bloodwork had been updated. And she definitely didn’t crumble on her kitchen floor when the results on her phone indicated her levels only rose by ⅓ in four days.

But that was it. That had to be it. It was over. I had a miscarriage. Cue the sad music. 

In a movie, sure. That’d be it. Next scene! However, in real life, we needed more tests, more time, and more waiting. So, that’s what we did. We waited. For two weeks, I waited while the bleeding started and stopped and started and stopped. I waited while my hormone levels rose too slowly before plateauing. I waited and waited and waited. 

During my final doctor’s visit, I stared at a cardboard Cupid cutout hanging from the ceiling when the doctor once again inserted a probe inside me. This time, though, her spine didn’t relax. My miscarriage—technically a “missed miscarriage” because my body didn’t pass the tissue—was confirmed on Valentine’s Day. 19 days after the bleeding started, I had my answer. 19 days were spent researching forums where pregnant women experienced bleeding and went on to have healthy babies. 19 days wondering what to do with the mugs I had gotten for my family with our due date stamped proudly on the side.

There wasn’t a reason. I didn’t fall or eat the wrong thing or lift something heavy. As with the vast majority of miscarriages, it just happened. The baby wasn’t brewing right, so my body terminated it on its own. My body made a choice without consulting my heart. 

I had my D&C (dilation and curettage) procedure to remove the baby, the embryo, the cells, the potential Leila two days later. It was physically painless and quick—I was in and out of the hospital in under four hours, and when I got home, I wasn’t even groggy from the anesthesia. I told my editors I was okay to work, finished an assignment, and ordered pizza.

The American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists estimates 26 percent of pregnancies end in miscarriage. Even though miscarriages are extremely common, I had absolutely zero knowledge of what was happening to my body when I started bleeding in my first trimester. And after growing up basing miscarriages on scenes from The King of Queens and This is Us where one second the woman’s pregnant and the next she isn’t, I couldn’t process what was happening. While spontaneous miscarriages, the ones that occur so quickly it’s over before you realize they started, happen, for many, it’s a brutal endurance test of willpower, sanity, and the trust you have in your own body.  

For me, it wasn’t just losing the baby I had wanted for so long. It was the waiting. I was waiting to learn whether or not my pregnancy was viable. I was waiting to know whether or not I was miscarrying. We were then waiting to be clear for sex again, waiting for my period to return, and waiting to feel like I was ready to start trying again.

In the movies and the shows, no one talks about the waiting. The pregnant couple is happy, and then something happens, and then they have a miscarriage. There’s no waiting around for weeks wondering and hoping and trying not to hope. We see the despair and the devastation on-screen, but we don’t know the waiting. And for me, that’s been the worst part. 

Even though so many people experience miscarriage, all we get are a few brief scenes that don’t depict the process. They don’t depict the sleepless nights or the moment you hide your dog-eared What to Expect book on the highest shelf in your kitchen because you can’t bear to look at it. 

After six months of ovulation tracking and waiting, bleeding and waiting, miscarrying and waiting, I’m back at the start of my TTC journey. Like so many others, I’m once again hoping this is the cycle I’ll conceive. And in a few weeks, hoping I’ll get a positive pregnancy test. And in a few more weeks, hoping I’ll see a heartbeat. But through it all, it comes down to waiting. 

As with most things in adult life, trying to create a family feels like sitting in a waiting room. Like you’re simply biding your time for your name to be called so you can post the engagement pictures or the honeymoon selfie, or the 12-week sonogram. Like it’s all one giant TBD.

The media definitely doesn’t show the hours and days and months and years people spend waiting for their turn, but my ill-timed miscarriage taught me that life keeps going while you’re waiting, so you might as well make the best of it. I can’t pretend I’m not desperately hoping my name will be called, that my chance at motherhood will come soon. But until then, I’ll be sitting in a hot tub, eating unpasteurized cheese, and enjoying a good glass of wine in the waiting room. Take a cue from the movies and remember: Your time is coming; you just have to wait for the next act.

Images: HBO; Anete Lusina / Pexels

When I was pregnant with my first baby, a friend cautioned me, “listen, right after birth you’re going to look like a deflated balloon and you’ll think you’re doomed to look that way forever, but trust me: it isn’t permanent”. She was right (on both fronts: yes, I looked like a deflated balloon, and yes, it went away). As my due date with my second approached, I readied myself for the changes ahead, assuming they would also be short-lived. Maybe subsequent pregnancies have a cumulative effect on the body, or it is the fact that this was a “geriatric” pregnancy, but it seems this time around, things weren’t bouncing back so quickly.

And it really bummed me out. 

At a time when body positivity messaging is omnipresent and self-acceptance inspiration is finally mainstream, I’m struggling to admit that I miss my pre-baby body. 

Years ago, magazines and tabloid sites were full of horrible sanctimonious criticism of celebrities and who got their post-baby body back the quickest. It felt awful to watch the physical toll of motherhood be reduced to such pettiness. And sure, that commentary still exists, but there’s also a brilliant and powerful body-positive counterculture, stunning women who wear their stretch marks like beautiful badges of honor. If these responses to post-pregnancy body imagery are on opposite ends of a spectrum, I struggled with where to put myself. It prompted me to ask some uncomfortable questions: Was I a lesser feminist for missing how my clothes fit before I had children? Was I shallow for wanting to devote some of my very limited time trying to claw back a bit of my old self? How much of my motivations are rooted in health versus vanity? And, at my deepest, most insecure self, I wondered whether “good” mothers still care about their appearance or is that also sacrificed at the altar of motherhood?

Beauty, as they say, is skin deep. The changes that I readied myself for were swift. Soon after delivery, I went from pregnancy glow to oh no. In a matter of days, my forehead looked like a blotchy spray tan gone bad. After scrubbing it raw with a washcloth and then eventually turning to concealer, I sought out the help of a dermatologist who said the culprit is likely pregnancy mask, ie., melasma. For some, melasma can be caused by a myriad of factors and is chronic. For others, it will disappear on its own months after pregnancy, along with the line running down one’s stomach in pregnancy, linea nigra, another hallmark of pregnancy hyperpigmentation. Time is the deciding factor in whether or not it is chronic. Short of getting in a time machine and seeing what the future holds for my skin, I just try to ignore it. You read that right: I literally try to ignore the upper third of my face when looking in the mirror. Instead, I gaze upon the plump, perfect little faces of my children, so full of promise and collagen.

I thoroughly enjoyed two pregnancy’s worth of bombshell hair but know that it is a good time, not a long time. After giving birth, 40 weeks of good hair days went down the drain (literally), like a ginkgo tree dropping its leaves. 

 Hairstylist and salon owner Jason Lee explains that hair has a natural life cycle which includes both a growth stage (anogen phase) and a shedding phase (exogen phase). “Pregnant women experience a continual anogen phase where they describe their hair feeling thicker and fuller and growing longer than usual”, Lee says. While nothing can speed up how quickly hair grows, I can’t pull off the cool mom top knot, so I invested in a very, very good haircut that doesn’t make me feel like I’ve given up. It feels, I don’t know, almost French? With the hair situation under control, imagine my delight when my eyelashes and eyebrows started falling out, too. I don’t wear a lot of makeup and feel oddly naked without lashes and brows. 

The cause of this is the exogen/anogen cycle back on its bullshit. Ashley Woodroffe founded Extra Goodie lash serum after her own experience of motherhood set her on a path for clean ingredients. “Eyebrows and lashes go through the same type of growth cycles and can also be impacted by the new balance of hormones that comes with having a baby,” she explains. Aging compounds this, as growth phases naturally decrease and the diameter of hair shafts shrinks. With a lens on clean, non-synthetic ingredients, Woodroffe created a serum to give hair follicles the nutrients they need to yield thicker, longer lashes. Would age eventually rob us all of our lashes and brows, with motherhood simply fast-tracking the process? Maybe, but this feels like a very low-stakes, potentially high-return situation. Gimme the serums, please and thank you.

In addition to once having fairly good if not low-maintenance skin and hair, I used to enjoy the metabolism of a hummingbird. Two children later, my once-athletic build now looks like Mr. Burns: rounded back and shoulders, in a permanent hunch. I saw a chiropractor and acupuncturist with a focus on perinatal care, Dr Aliya Visram, who assured me this is common, albeit uncomfortable. “Pregnancy strains joints and shifts one’s center of gravity, causing rounded shoulders, a tucked-in pelvis (or flat bum) and a hunched neck”, she explains. Then of course, after the baby arrives, the hunching continues as we feed, hold, change and wear them. 

My posture is a hill that I’m willing to die on. I feel like my joints are made of concrete when I’m sedentary and exercise is the cornerstone of my postpartum mental health. I’ve resolved to move my body, in any way that I can, every day. It won’t exactly wind back the clock, but it goes a long way for boosting my mood. Plus, I want to role model an active lifestyle to my kids.

Ah, right. My kids. The family that I wanted so badly that I feel guilty for wanting to replace one lost hair on my head because I love them so fiercely. There is no hiding that motherhood has impacted every part of my life, including what I see in the mirror. Mirrors, however, don’t always tell the truth. I met Karmen LaMer, founder of The Tight Clinic. We both had cancer as young women and talked about the dichotomy of never being more grateful for your body and health, whilst also being accurately aware of bodies inevitably change (and not always in ways that we like). She points to Forma as a very effective treatment to rebuild collagen, which she credits with replenishing her own skin after cancer treatment. “I exhausted EVERY technology, the risk of complications from some are scary as fuck. For Forma, there’s no pain, no downtime and no risk – effective as rebuilding collagen anywhere in the body, particularly for firming the face and tightening tummy tissue after pregnancy,” says LeMer. FORMA EVERY INCH OF ME, I was thinking as she spoke. She delivers her dose of optimism with a chaser of realism. Sure, some treatments can help with some things here or there, but she’s often left asking women what’s really behind their motivations for certain treatments or procedures. She sadly sees many women who have developed dysphoric relationships with their appearance. She would rather turn away potential customers than perpetuate unhealthy self-imagery. “This industry is happy to take women’s money and promise them results they can’t deliver. I have integrity and am honest about what a treatment can and can’t do”, explains LaMer.

When it comes down to it, am I losing sleep over a thinner ponytail or curvier body? Heck no. I don’t have any of that to spare (no, literally, I need every minute of sleep I can get). I’ve decided to enter the next phase grateful for the miraculous work that my body’s done, and with a heaping dose of reality about what changes will unearth pieces of the old me. If I thought it was so horrible to see celebrities’ bodies picked apart for how they look on the beach after having a baby, why would I ever do that to myself? Now more than ever, I see that getting to know my postpartum body is a perfect metaphor for motherhood: being uncomfortable and never more confident at the same time. 

Image: Brat Co / Stockys.com

If I was to describe my pre-pandemic life, you could easily tell what I did for a living simply by seeing the suitcase by my door and the heavily stamped passport. Up until COVID-19 decided to decimate all that we held dear, I made my living as a travel writer for the past three or four years. But now that the world has come to an indefinite standstill and we’re making like hideaway hobbits, I’ve had to pull a pandemic pivot with my career, like countless others in my industry and many others. 

But if there’s been a silver lining to the whole “my adventures as a travel writer coming to an abrupt halt” thing, it’s been that I’ve acquired a whack-load of introspection. I’ve taken some time to reflect upon the places I’ve traveled to (nearly 70 countries) and it dawned on me that many of my travel habits were actually toxic. This realization came from an unlikely source: my pregnancy. 

In lockdown, my husband and I were grateful to have some solace in a safe space to strengthen our relationship (and as a result, why we decided to try for a baby). But in pre-pandemic times, I hardly ever saw him. I was hopping on a plane every 2-3 weeks, chasing foreign destinations, deadlines, and pitches. However, what was once exhilarating quickly became exhausting. I was always in a frenzy. While my body was physically in Abu Dhabi, for instance, my mind was elsewhere. I was obsessed with chasing that elusive notion of being a “jet setter”, someone who could boast about how she visited X amount of countries in a short period of time. And I’m not a travel influencer by any stretch of the imagination, but clearly something was causing me to dread the feeling of having my feet on solid ground in one place for too long.

Very quickly, travel became a drug I was hooked on—it became an almost toxic game of being proud that I was never home, that I was always in an “exotic” destination. As a result, I lost touch with my value systems and identity. I missed out on major milestones like loved ones’ weddings, and my connection to my homeland of Toronto, Canada dwindled. It was like I was pretending it was “cool” to treat my city like a layover, rather than a place to put down roots.

Why did I succumb to this behavior? TBH, I think it was easier to interact with strangers in foreign places. There’s nothing at stake, no risk of judgment or fear of their reactions. Additionally, at that point in my life, I was going through a LOT of life changes. I was severing ties with abusive individuals, attending more intensive and draining therapy sessions, getting used to my fiancé’s side of the family and contending with all those new dynamics, feeling pressured to have and honor large wedding traditions and plan the wedding, dealing with the expectation of moving into a larger place shortly after, being asked about having babies and starting a family—all at the same time. It was all-consuming and overwhelming. It was too much for me. I went from a life that was manageable and comfortable, me and my boyfriend living in our cozy apartment, to suddenly being handed this chaotic tsunami of life-altering stuff. So what did I do? I escaped. I fled the country as often as possible. But clearly, this was not a sustainable solution, because every time I touched down from my latest trip, real life was becoming more fractured with many unresolved issues I didn’t want to deal with.

The worst part was that this travel-based blur never fully afforded me a sense of purpose: I didn’t appreciate the opportunity enough to absorb the incredible nuances of each destination I was in, which included the people, culture, and beauty that surrounded me. I remember being on a four-hour sailing excursion in Croatia bobbling along the Adriatic Sea. Instead of soaking up the sights, sounds, and smells, I felt frustrated, restless, and anxious. I decided that this was a waste of time and that I could have used these precious minutes instead to be on land and hit up as many landmarks as possible. I was too preoccupied with this arbitrary checklist, and having a “what’s next” mentality almost stopped me from enjoying it at all. 

I guess it’s true what they say about getting your priorities in check when you have a mentally and physically life-altering experience such as having a tiny human grow inside you. The surge of hormones, the more frequent Zoom sessions/calls with my midwife, the slew of regular phone/virtual therapy sessions—all coupled with being in lockdown—acted as the catalyst to the introspection I needed to reflect upon my life. Lockdown has been a blessing in disguise for me. Without it, I wouldn’t have had the time or opportunity to figure out my travel habits weren’t good for me. Ultimately, I realized that I need to grow up and be a responsible adult (and future parent) who can teach my child about travel being an incredible privilege and not a right. I’ve also realized that less is truly more. When it comes to exploring new places now, I’m going to focus on quality over quantity.

When I first began traveling for a living, I hoped travel would shape my core being, but in the past year, it dawned on me that it actually caused me to lose touch with myself. It also explains why, when I was abroad, I would fill my arbitrary agenda with random stuff to do. When left to my own devices, I was super uneasy in my own skin. In previous stories I’ve written for Betches, I mentioned that I’ve contended (and still do) with a myriad of mental health issues. In a nutshell, these elements hijacked my identity and I was filling the void with travel (in addition to using it as a form of escapism from IRL problems). It will take some time, but this realization was revelatory, and now I’m taking time to rediscover who I am, simply by trying out and testing random activities and determining what appeals to me (so far I’ve tried pottery, painting, strategy-based board games with hubby, and archery). With a renewed sense of wonder, I will now approach travel with more thoughtfulness and grace I probably couldn’t have conceived of in my pre-pregnancy and pre-pandemic days. 

Imags: Clement Souchet / Unsplash

When I was a teenager and started hooking up with my first “totally wrong for me” boyfriend, the thing I was most afraid of was getting pregnant. I never messed around without condoms, and even then, I’d make him pull out every time just to be extra careful. It wasn’t due to the fact that my parents said they’d disown me if I got knocked up—I’m pretty sure we only had one awkward conversation about it in the car, and I’ve mostly blocked out the memory due to the sheer humiliation of it all. No, it was the way they talked about relatives who accidentally got pregnant or how my mom looked disappointed yet resigned when I asked to go on birth control at 17.

Even as I got older, went to college, and started getting my sh*t together, the implication was there: don’t get pregnant before you’re married. The reason, of course, was that my life would be over. Destroyed. I’d be a ~ruined woman.~ So, I used condoms, pulled out, and went on birth control that destroyed my libido and made me not want to have sex in the first place, all in an effort to avoid the dreaded pregnancy out of wedlock.

I put a lot of work into not getting pregnant, but now, as a married, professional (lol) woman in my late twenties who spends an ungodly amount of time scrolling through Instagram, I’m starting to wonder if that was the right choice. As my biological clock starts to tick, it makes sense why some women would decide to get pregnant despite not being married. Unless you’ve somehow managed to avoid all media for the past couple of years, there’s a good chance you’ve been privy to celeb pregnancy announcements. Kylie Jenner, Khloé Kardashian, Mindy Kaling, Emma Roberts, and Gigi Hadid are just a handful of the mommas out there who had a baby (or babies, in Mindy’s case) sans spouse. Granted, they are superstars who have money and the ability to hire people to help them. But it’s not just people who can make bank from one #SponCon who are bucking the “first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby with the baby carriage” norm. It’s regular people as well.

Despite the outdated taboo, a few friends of mine got pregnant and had babies before getting married, and at first, I didn’t think much of it. But then, I saw more and more women my age posting stunning bump pictures without a partner (or at least, without a ring) and dressing their babies up and casually chatting about shared custody or their happy unmarried family unit. When I saw my 10th announcement within a few months, I pulled a Carrie and couldn’t help but wonder: Is getting pregnant sans marriage… trendy?

As someone who went the “socially accepted/expected” path (college, marriage, house, maybe babies in the future), I can’t speak to the hows and whys of the influx of single moms, but it’s definitely not just an Instagram coincidence. Before the 1960s, premarital pregnancy was pretty f*cking rare, according to 2017 data from the United States Congress Joint Economic Committee. Back then, about 5.3% of births were to single ladies. Since then, however, births to unmarried women started climbing. In 2008, 40% of births were to unwed moms, and today only about 9% of those are followed up with a good old fashion shotgun wedding, as opposed to 43% back in the early ’60s.

So, the big question is: Why are millennials choosing to have children outside of marriage?

Basically? We don’t view marriage the same way our parents and grandparents did. “Previous generations viewed marriage as the first step of adulthood. Many millennials, however, look at marriage as one of the last milestones you get to after you are financially stable,” relationship therapist and coach Jaime Bronstein explains to Betches. “Since many millennials aren’t gaining that financial security at the peak of their child-bearing years, they feel like they should just have a baby regardless of their relationship status while they can.”

Baily, a 27-year-old mom of a 1-year-old, agrees. “In my grandma’s generation, you just did not get divorced. It was against the church. In my mom’s generation, everyone’s divorced,” she explains. “This generation isn’t bothering. I never grew up wanting to get married. I was never that girl. I don’t look at wedding dresses or rings online. I just wanted to be a mom one day.“

Despite not being married (although she is in a serious relationship with her baby’s father), Baily’s decision to get pregnant wasn’t totally accidental. “I’d be lying if I said alcohol wasn’t involved,” she admits, “But I had very knowingly canceled my birth control subscription to eventually try. It just happened a lot faster than I thought.” Since she’s with a man eight years her senior who, she says, “was on an ‘I wanna be a dad kick,'” having a baby just made sense. 

Sarah, a 29-year-old regional sales manager, is currently 33 weeks along in her pregnancy and in a serious, committed relationship with her baby’s father. The mom-to-be agrees with Baily, saying, “I think as a society we are becoming less traditional as a whole. Part of the shift from tradition is making the decision to have a baby regardless of marital status.”

When it comes to her relationship, Sarah says, “My pregnancy has only strengthened our relationship. It’s been such a joy to watch him settle into fatherhood.” She adds, “It’s funny how things that once felt so major (like a wedding) seem so insignificant once you’re expecting a child together.”

For Adriane, a flight attendant with a 3-year-old son, it was the legal freedom that came with being unwed—as well as the chance to see how her S.O. handled the changes—that made her feel like it was the right decision. “You get to find out how your partner deals with stress and big life changes. Like a trial period,” she laughs.

“You can always cancel if you don’t like it,” Samantha, an unmarried mom of two, agrees. “You see everything about a person before you decide to spend your whole life with someone. I think that cuts down on your chance of divorce. If things don’t work out, it’s a lot easier to break up than to divorce, and that will be easier on your kids.”

And while the moms I talked to (all of whom have some level of post-secondary education) are in agreement that they made the right choice in having their children, being unmarried can add a level of uncertainty.

“It’s easier to leave when you aren’t married, and that has been a worry of mine at times,” says mom of two, Jenn. “A new baby is tough. Especially postpartum when my hormones are crazy, and I’m a mess crying all the time… There is a lot of gross stuff that goes on during pregnancy and after you have the baby which your partner is going to see. It definitely made me nervous that maybe he wouldn’t find me attractive or sexy again after seeing my body change so much and seeing me in such a vulnerable position.”

Luckily for Jenn, her partner is proving to be as doting—if not more so—than the husbands of her friends, which is something Baily noticed as well. “Men can be very irritating, and I’m a big ‘I’ll just do it myself’-er. I luckily still have a lot of support,” she explains. “My boyfriend is great, and he’s such a great dad too. But I see my single friends managing just fine without a man.”

Baily and Samantha both feel the societal shift will continue to grow as women see close single friends and “everyday women” rear children without a spouse. Add in the fact that single influential celebrities are also having babies and the whole trend gains speed. 

“Celebrities have a large influence on the minds of impressionable individuals. Naturally, you compare yourself to those in the public eye and wonder if their reality can be your reality,” explains relationship expert Spicy Mari. As the female empowerment movement continues to push forward (about damn time, amiright?), there’s a good chance unwed pregnancy will continue to become more popular.

“As women become more financially stable, they feel as though they don’t need to be married to gain the financial benefits they once needed that came along with marriage,” adds Bronstein.

Ultimately, every relationship is different. For some, a legally binding commitment will make them feel ready to have a child. While 60% of pregnancies still happen post-wedding, a growing amount of people just don’t need that sort of declaration. Whether you’re married or not, things like judgment from older generations and sticky logistics should the relationship not work out are factors to consider, but will probably come either way.

Anne*, a recently divorced mom of a 1-year-old, advises anyone thinking about getting pregnant, “to ask themselves: ‘Can I co-parent with this person if we don’t work out?’ and ‘Am I willing to see less of my child if we do end up co-parenting?'” She adds, “Obviously, that can happen if you get married. But married couples are more likely to work things out than couples who don’t have that commitment.” 

Ultimately, deciding you want to get pregnant in 2021 isn’t necessarily contingent upon being married, so you have to decide what’s best for you and your child. “Think about your personal pros and cons. Think about the meaning and purpose behind both,” advises Bronstein. “Everyone needs to do what is best for them.” There’s no wrong answer here, as long as you’re emotionally, physically, and financially ready to care for a child.

“A commitment is a commitment, and a baby is a HUGE commitment. Nothing says ‘you’re mine forever’ like literally creating a life together,” says Baily. “Don’t let government papers, a wedding dress, or bitchy bridesmaids dictate how old your kids will be when you’re 40 on a cruise ship drinking margs, and they’re all off to college already.” We’ll cheers our mocktails to that. 

*Name has been changed.

Images: Camylla Battani / Unsplash; Giphy (5)

When life gives you a pandemic… some of us get pregnant, apparently. I realize this outcome was also a recurring joke on social media: the fact that if we were collectively sheltering in place with our partners, one of two things could happen: we’d either destroy each other or make a baby. I guess my husband and I were the latter (although we sometimes dabbled in the former on our off days). Real talk, though: while the timing was funny, my pregnancy didn’t come as a surprise to either one of us—my husband and I had planned to start trying for a baby this year, pandemic be damned. However, the element that caught me off-guard was my initial reaction when I saw that positive pregnancy test result: disappointment. It was pretty much a WTF moment.

Let me rewind and set the scene for you. My husband and I began to “seriously” start trying in mid-September. My family physician, Dr. Tina Chanchlani, informed me that, statistically, about 50% of women get pregnant within 6 months, and 85%-90% would conceive within about 12 months of trying. Sounds reasonable, but based on my volatile health record (mental health issues which include trauma, anxiety, depression, an eating disorder which resulted in my losing my period for about a decade), I fully expected to have trouble getting pregnant. And I was completely okay with that—in fact, I had mentally prepared for the likelihood of my needing to seek out a fertility specialist.

So, plot twist—within a month of trying, my husband asked if I had my period in October, and I informed him that I had missed it. He hastily went out and purchased First Response. I thought he was being an eager beaver, but I indulged in his curiosity even though I was thinking, “there’s no way I could be pregnant so quick”. Then, boom: I took the test, and a “YES” and “+” sign were staring back at me. I was pregnant.

What hit me next was unexpected: a tidal wave of anxiety cascaded over me, leading to a full-fledged attack with blood rushing to my head and my brain going numb and body feeling like a floundering jellyfish. 

“Sh*t,” I thought to myself. I then found myself swimming in a sea of guilt and disappointment. I felt like an asshole for not having a more positive reaction. 

“What’s wrong with me?” I thought. I should feel euphoric, grateful, and overjoyed—not freaking out and having panic attacks. Right?!

Don’t Buy Into The “Right” Or “Wrong” Reaction. It Doesn’t Exist.

Society and pop culture have royally f*cked us over. Whether we admit it to ourselves or not, a part of us has subconsciously absorbed the so-called norms and reductive scripts regarding a woman’s relationship with pregnancy and being pregnant. 

“There is an expectation that has been perpetuated in our society that women should be blissfully excited upon discovering a new pregnancy. However, many women do not have that reaction, which is completely normal. This idea of blissful excitement and anticipation is unrealistic,” explains Dr. Megan Gray, an OB-GYN with Orlando Health Physician Associates. Because there is this undeniable societal pressure to exhibit the “correct” feelings, there’s not much flexibility and understanding of alternative reactions: “there is not a lot of room on the emotional spectrum—the ‘right’ emotion is ‘HAPPY’. That’s it.” adds Behaviorist, Author and Confidence Coach Shane Kulman, Founder of The Awkward Academy. In reality, there are many emotions one can feel upon receiving that life-changing news, and it’s time we acknowledge them.

Expectation Vs. Reality

Part of my disappointment stemmed from the realization that I had fallen prey to one-sided depictions of how a woman “should” react when getting positive pregnancy news. The thing is, it’s unavoidable—we’re all human and susceptible to this kind of societal brainwashing, whether we intend to or not. And that’s okay, so long as we remind ourselves that these narratives are rarely ever accurate displays of real life.

Dr. Barbara Frank, OB/GYN and medical advisor to sustainable wellness brand Attn: Grace, explains, “there are so many factors that play into the way a woman feels during pregnancy. If you find yourself comparing your bump online with other moms or scrolling through ads of smiling new moms who look like they all have it locked down and under control, remember that you are only seeing one side of the picture.”

Dr. Frank does note, though, that there is a small and growing community whose authenticity should be spotlighted:  “I applaud those moms that share the real pictures, the real, raw emotions, the ugly-crying (in love and sadness), the trouble getting out of bed in the morning, the fear of harming your newborn walking down the stairs…” Ultimately she advises mothers-to-be to “be honest with yourself and try to manage your expectations.”

Recognize & Accept Your Feelings With Thoughtfulness

My anxiety attack was followed up with harsh self-talk that I had pretty much failed right out of the gate. I was consumed with self-sabotaging thoughts like, “wow, does this mean I secretly don’t want to be a mom? Am I going to be a bad parent because I wasn’t initially overjoyed?” This subsequently led to an anxiety spiral of overanalyzing and replaying every little second of the hows and whys to understand what was going on in my brain. Take it from me: this is hellishly exhausting, both mentally and physically. If you ever find yourself in a similarly destructive thought pattern, Dr. Gray advises the following: “The first step is recognizing the feeling and giving yourself the grace to feel the emotion. Then trying to nail down the source of the anxiety. Why are you anxious? Write it down.” 

It’s also important to realize that you don’t have to be alone on this journey. Dr. Gray says, “don’t be afraid to seek out a professional who wants to help you. Talking to your physician about any medical concerns you may have associated with pregnancy may allay some of the fears. I would encourage women to talk with an obstetrician or certified nurse midwife about the ins and outs of pregnancy and avoid relying on the internet for information.” Lastly, and an important FYI, Dr. Frank explains that if you find that your mental health issues are affecting your quality of daily living, it may be advisable to seek out a mental health professional.”

A Baby Is A Big F*cking Deal

Creating life is pretty incredible and a big f*cking deal. You definitely know that there are going to be a LOT of life changes, and that knowledge can feel distressing and overwhelming. These are legitimate sentiments to have! Dr. Gray assures us, “It is completely normal to feel anxious about a new pregnancy for so many different reasons. These feelings may be completely different and valid for each individual woman.” In addition to worrying about changes in career, friendships, etc., it’s also normal to be thinking about your well-being: “other women worry about the risks involved in pregnancy for themselves and for the fetus.” Regardless of the trigger, Dr. Gray cites that all of these worries are valid and normal.

Self-Care & No Negative Vibes Allowed

Kulman says that in this scenario, it’s okay to think of yourself and prioritize your needs first: “the best practice is to become as selfish as ever, take on no obligations, to bow out or say ‘no’ gracefully, and have no qualms about using the sentence, ‘I’m sorry I have to say no, it’s best I rest’, with no other explanations necessary.” Kulman follows this up with a self-care plan of action: “self-appointed rest, and moving through life with slow and gentle care is best.”

She also advises, “put the nap times on the calendar, and be purposeful in actions when in productivity mode” and to tag-team it up with your significant other. “Ask for help, help in practical ways, and emotional ways. Have a set time or meeting with your partner about expectations, get excited together and talk about fears and worries—always begin and end the communication time with positivity.” And don’t forget to document your pregnancy adventures. Kulman encourages women to keep a daily journal: “it can be something as simple as bullet points, but regardless of how you choose to express yourself (e.g. draw/write) it’s healthy for many reasons to document this process, or it will be a blur.”

In building upon your self-care regime, it’s also great to have a game plan in mind when you are pregnant or thinking about getting pregnant. Surrounding yourself with nurturing support systems and people is an essential best practice to help you deal with feelings of worry and anxiety. Dr. Gray suggests that soon-to-be moms set up a checklist.

“For mild symptoms (e.g. not affecting daily living, not causing distress), here are some options to help cope with new pregnancy anxiety/issues: 

1. Find support: primarily trusted friends, family members, partners. 
2. Get outside and move! Both exercise and being outdoors has shown to improve mood.
3. Practice gratitude: keep a journal of what you are thankful for. This practice has also been shown to improve mood. 
4. Talk to your doctor: find an obstetrician or certified nurse midwife that you feel comfortable with. Ask LOTS of questions. Keep the answers in a notebook or on your phone. Refer back to the answers when you need reassurance. 
5. Take one day at a time. Don’t look too far into the future. 
6. Talk with a mental health therapist, psychologist, psychiatrist.”

When I found out I was pregnant, I feared that I was being an ungrateful “debbie-downer” and “ruining the moment”  when I informed my husband that I was freaking out and having an anxiety attack. Additionally, everyone else that I spoke to told me that they were nothing but elated (especially those who had struggled for a while to get pregnant in the first place). So I’m not gonna lie: I was worried about what others would think or say about my reaction. What genuinely helped was that I didn’t keep these thoughts trapped inside and shared them with someone I trusted and loved (my hubby), and the fact that my husband didn’t judge me for how I felt. Instead, he told me that he was kind of freaking out too. But he had this reassuring glow to him, explaining that, “yeah holy sh*t—our lives are going to be different, but we have each other to explore this journey together. So while it’s scary and unpredictable, it’s also kind of exciting.” 

Dr. Frank offers, “Like most things in life, and even more so in this case, it’s not all going to be or feel like you might want it to or even expect it to. That baby in your belly didn’t read some master manual, and you and he/she/they are going to have to get through things together, learning as you go.” So she says to not be too hard on yourself.

With so many changes afoot, it’s important to keep afloat of mental and emotional hijacking. Nothing is static and each person’s pregnancy is an unpredictable, yet exhilarating fluid ride. Dr. Gray says, “finding out you are pregnant can induce a multitude of emotions, and it is not always like what you see in the movies or on Instagram or TikTok. However, just because your first emotion is not complete elation does not mean that over time you will not develop some sense of excitement throughout your pregnancy.” Ultimately, it’s about shifting perspective and being honest with yourself without reservations when it comes to your own experiences in being pregnant.

Images: George Rudy / Shutterstock.com

“The pregnancy is not developing. I’m sorry.” I sat on the exam table, masked, alone, and completely bewildered by what I’d just heard. Of course, I’d always known this was a possibility. Hell, I’d spent weeks avoiding friends and family members and keeping my pregnancy a secret because it was still early. But “knowing” and knowing are two very different things. We all “know” that pregnancy loss happens. Just a couple of weeks ago, Chrissy Teigen bravely shared with the world that she lost her baby after experiencing complications with her pregnancy. Yet many were shocked or uncomfortable that Teigen revealed something so personal in such detail, confirming that stories like hers are still too often spoken about in hushed tones. I for one am over this. October 15^th is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, and in keeping with the spirit of the day, I’d like to share what I’ve learned after going through my own miscarriage.

It’s Surprisingly Common

Miscarriages are the most common cause of pregnancy loss, and they happen frequently. The statistics vary, but some tell us that about 10-20% of known pregnancies end in miscarriage, while others state that the rate is as high as 1 in 4. Anecdotally, it feels like it’s even more than that. Once I decided to open up and share my experience with other people, I started hearing so many others’ stories of pregnancy loss. If it hasn’t happened to the friends I’ve told, it’s happened to one of their friends or family members. While I’d never wish my experience on anyone, it’s comforting to know that I’m in the company of so many other strong and accomplished women.

Talking About It Helps

When I first learned my pregnancy wasn’t viable, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to share it with anyone beyond my closest friends and family members, for a couple of reasons. First, the experience can be hard to put into words. I barely had time to acclimate to the changes in my body and my identity before suddenly they were rendered obsolete. And yet, I was devastated, grieving for something that barely was. The abrupt shift was jarring, maddening, and totally disorienting. How do you explain that to someone who’s never been through it?

I was also afraid of burdening those around me with the news. It seemed strange to reach out, only to share something so awful. But then I had a revelation. I’d spent weeks isolating myself from the people I cared about when I was pregnant and it was anxiety-producing and depressing. Why double down on behavior that wasn’t serving me in the first place when I actually needed people? So much of pregnancy is shrouded in secrecy. Well-meaning secrecy, perhaps, but secrecy nonetheless. And those secrets were making me sick. Once I decided to open up to my family, friends, and therapist, I was overwhelmed by the love and support I received, which is just what I needed to start healing.

It’s Not Pretty

I think the main reason we don’t talk openly about pregnancy loss is because it doesn’t jibe with the picture-perfect ideal of motherhood that we expect women to uphold. Motherhood is supposed to be pretty and, above all, easy. The content on social media seems to confirm this. After all, it’s much more pleasant to post a joyful pregnancy announcement or serene maternity shot than it is to share the gruesome details of your D&C. Don’t get me wrong: we absolutely should celebrate the happy moments, especially during a time when we’re all looking for a glimmer of hope. But the ideal of motherhood is just that. It doesn’t tell the whole story, especially when so many women struggle with loss and infertility.

The ugly physical side effects that accompany a miscarriage are almost nothing compared to the emotional ones. Grief is already a non-linear process, but as the hormones produced during pregnancy begin to leave the body you may very well feel like you’re losing your mind. In my case, I’d go from moments where I was watching my favorite trash on Bravo and laughing like old times, to moments where my anxiety would take hold, convincing me that I’d never be able to have a child, and leaving me curled up on my couch in hysterics. One study found that one in six women who miscarry suffer long-term PTSD. Symptoms like these are invisible and insidious, exacerbating the anxiety and depression that underly an already traumatic experience. The hopelessness can feel so real you take it as fact, even though it’s not.

It Takes Time To Heal

If you’d spoken to me in the first week or two following my miscarriage, I’d have told you that I didn’t know if I would ever recover. But somewhere around week three, as I confided in friends and family, made peace with the fact that this happened to me, and let go of the shame, I started to feel like myself again. The key is to allow yourself time to feel better. We’re all built differently, and dwelling on how you “should” and “shouldn’t” be feeling is useless. Acknowledging your pain and letting yourself feel it is essential to the healing process.

Ask For What You Need

Just like it’s okay to let yourself feel the pain, it’s okay to ask for what you need from loved ones. It’s not uncommon for there to be a disconnect in the grief experienced by the person who lost the pregnancy and the partner who cares, but doesn’t fully understand what the other is going through on a physical and emotional level. While some resentment is natural, it helps to model the behavior you’re looking for by asking, compassionately, for some compassion. The same goes for friends and family members who don’t know what to say and may not understand that silence isn’t always golden. If you want to talk about it, let them know and explain that a safe space to air your feelings is all you’re looking for.

This rule also goes for your medical care. If your doctor isn’t showing you the care and empathy you deserve after a pregnancy loss, there’s nothing wrong with looking for a new doctor. The doctor-patient relationship during a pregnancy is a long and intimate one, and it’s important that you and your doctor are on the same page about the kind of care you need to feel safe and comfortable.

Pregnancy loss is heart-wrenching, but it’s not insurmountable. Talk to those you trust and don’t be afraid to be vulnerable. There’s strength in laying bare your weaknesses. While I have no idea what the road ahead looks like, I’m grateful I don’t have to walk it alone.

Image: Kinga Cichewicz / Unsplash

Having a baby is beautiful and a miracle and all that, but anyone who has gone through it knows it’s also awkward AF. There’s nothing quite like your mom texting the whole extended family about how many centimeters dilated you are to make you realize that fact. There are a lot of unspoken questions about birth that expecting moms might be too embarrassed to ask their friend, sister, mom, or even their OBGYN. We’re going to do every first-time mom a favor and dive right in to some of the most awkward birth questions that you’ve been dying to know.

1. Will I Poop During Labor?

So this is probably an obvious one that we’re all just in denial about—understandably, because who enjoys pooping in front of someone else? Pushing a baby out is literally exactly like pushing the biggest poop of your life out, and you will be using every muscle imaginable to get that baby out. So yes, most women do poop while giving birth.

If this automatically makes you sweaty and uncomfortable, know that it’s incredibly common. Nurses are completely unfazed by it and clean it up so fast that you’ll have no clue anyway. 

2. Will I Be Able to Cover Up And Not Be Totally Naked?

 

View this post on Instagram

 

So what I’m hearing is you’re not coming home with me but what I want to know is why? // credit/permission @melreiscosta

A post shared by @ betchesmoms on Sep 18, 2020 at 1:58pm PDT

The short answer is not really. However, it’s very important to note that even the most modest mom will give approximately zero f*cks about being naked mid-contraction. You’ll have a hospital gown on, but it’s pretty difficult to keep anything below the waist covered when it’s time to push. If you’re having a C-section, you’ll likely be naked from the waist down. You’ll have a sheet between you and the surgery, so at least you don’t have to watch. 

Either way, you are singlehandedly (with the help of your nurses and doctors) bringing life into this world, which is pretty incredible. Not a single person in that room will care about you being naked, including yourself. 

3. Will My Partner See Everything And Will It Affect Our Relationship?

See above about the fact that it’s pretty impossible not to be totally naked from the waist down, so unless your partner stares intensely at your face the entire time (which is definitely even more awkward), they will see some stuff during a vaginal delivery. That is, of course, unless they’re a fainter. 

If your partner thinks any differently of you or your body after bringing his/her baby into the world, it better be positive. That’s all I have to say about that. Generally, though, there tends to be a resounding sense of amazement from partners. Choose the person or people that will be in the room with you wisely, because they will be your biggest cheerleaders throughout—not to mention, they may be cussed at a lot.

4. How Long Will I Bleed For?

 

View this post on Instagram

 

We’re being REALLY real with you guys. (It’s ALL worth it)

A post shared by @ betchesmoms on Sep 22, 2020 at 5:28am PDT

This is a case-by-case basis, but typically up to six weeks, even if you’ve had a C-section. Unfortunately, you do still bleed if you have a C-section (although usually not for as long). It doesn’t seem right or fair since C-sections are invasive enough as is, but if all of this were fair, then men would have to give birth and humanity probably wouldn’t survive. 

You may also be a bit sore and swollen, which might come as a surprise the first time you take a look down there postpartum. Remember that the ice packs provided by the hospital are your best friend. The good news is that the bleeding and swelling will eventually subside, and you then get to look forward to your first postpartum period. Isn’t being a woman fun? 

5. Should I Shave/Wax?

The least of your doctor’s concerns are your unshaved vagina, and WHO recommends not shaving prior to labor to minimize your risk for infection. It’s ultimately up to you, but if you’re tempted to, you may want to run it by your doctor first. If you are having a C-section, they’ll shave around the incision site, but they may have more specific instructions for you to prep for your surgery.

If you’re modest and feeling a bit anxious about all this, remember that the doctors and nurses are very, very used to anything weird that happens during labor and don’t actually think any of it is embarrassing at all. You also absolutely won’t be thinking about any of this when the big day comes.

Image: Ömürden Cengiz / Unsplash; betchesmoms (2) / Instagram