When I found out I was pregnant, I hadn’t yet come to terms with my past as a survivor of sexual assault. Just hours after the conception of my son, I sat in a therapist’s office with my partner, nervously clutching his hand. As the therapist uttered the word “rape,” I was struck by the weight of her words. The traumatic event from six years prior, which I had dismissed as “a huge mistake” and “a night I regret,” was indeed something far more severe. Despite having shared bits of that night with my partner, we had never used the term “rape.”
This new understanding shattered my carefully constructed reality. For six long years, I had been enveloped in a fog of despair, unaware of its true cause. Now, the truth was undeniable: I had endured profound violence, yet I still wrestled with feelings of guilt, as if I were somehow to blame. I immersed myself in self-help books, repeating mantras like “it’s not my fault,” but shame lingered like the stubborn scent of smoke clinging to an old sweater.
Two weeks later, I discovered two blue lines on a pregnancy test—the baby my partner and I had been fervently hoping for. My emotions were a whirlwind; I was both ecstatic and terrified.
Throughout those first three months, I often found myself curled up on our couch, battling debilitating anxiety. Though I experienced the common fatigue and nausea of early pregnancy, it was my mental state that truly faltered. I began to withdraw from friends and family, watching endless Netflix shows as a way to escape my spiraling thoughts. The fear looming over my pregnancy felt suffocating, making it hard to engage in joyful conversations about my growing baby. How could I share my excitement when a dark secret lay beneath?
When I did manage to speak about my pregnancy, I expressed excitement mixed with the usual fears surrounding childbirth. But I felt I was only scratching the surface. Usually an open book, I felt exhausted by the weight of my unshared truth. So, I retreated into a cocoon, determined to protect the innocent life growing inside me. I surrounded myself with comforting blankets and read voraciously about childbirth.
As my pregnancy progressed, I finally found the courage to seek help from a prenatal therapist. She was kind and supportive, creating a safe space for me to explore my feelings. After several sessions, I was finally able to share the full story of my trauma, including the fact that I had experienced a previous sexual assault just weeks before the rape.
Now, here I was—pregnant, hormonal, and grappling with the reality of having been violently violated not once but twice. Everything I once found secure felt precarious. My sense of safety eroded, and trust became a distant concept. Compounding this, our neighborhood was experiencing a surge in burglaries, and my supportive partner was often away due to his demanding job. My sleep became a struggle, interrupted by nightmares that reflected my fears.
The world felt terrifying, filled with threats to my safety. I was bringing a child into a world where such horrors existed. How could I protect him when I couldn’t even protect myself? Yet, despite the anxiety, I forced smiles for photos and shared my growing belly online, clinging to any semblance of joy.
As my due date approached, I felt palpable anxiety about childbirth. I explored various coping strategies—self-hypnosis, meditation, prayer—but still felt unprepared. The thought of being triggered during labor was daunting. Even though I knew I was not alone in my fear, my vulnerability was overwhelming.
Yet, it was this vulnerability that opened a door to hope. Amid my fears, I began to embrace the idea that my body and my story could be renewed. The timing of my pregnancy felt almost serendipitous, as if my son was meant to come into my life just as I began to confront my past.
I started to meditate on the release I felt upon recognizing my survivor status; it was as if I was unburdening myself from years of shame. The life inside me was a promise of healing and rebirth. God began to feel present in my journey, guiding me through the challenging truths of my past and preparing my heart for motherhood.
As I entered the final stages of pregnancy, I felt a growing confidence. I believed that I would survive childbirth and welcome a healthy child into the world. I had endured much worse, and I knew I could face this challenge—for myself and for my son.
Fast forward to now: my son is almost 18 months old—a lively little boy with a mischievous grin. Despite the anxiety and challenges surrounding his birth, he came into the world with relative ease. I faced my fears head-on, and in the end, I held the most precious gift.
So, why share this deeply personal story? I do so because I know I am not alone in feeling broken and afraid. My hope is to illuminate the strength and beauty that can emerge from the ashes of our experiences. I want to reach out to fellow survivors and assure them: you are not alone.
This journey continues. I still grapple with anxiety at times, facing the reality that despite my efforts, there’s only so much I can do to shield my child from harm. Every day is an exercise in trust and letting go.
One day, I will share with my son the story of the half marathon I walked with him while eight months pregnant. I’ll tell him about the heat, the swollen feet, and how I wanted to show him his mother’s strength. Most importantly, I’ll remind him how he taught me to be brave.
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Summary:
This article shares the poignant journey of a woman who, after surviving sexual assault, navigated the overwhelming emotions of pregnancy intertwined with anxiety. From grappling with her past trauma to finding hope and strength in motherhood, her story emphasizes resilience and the importance of connection among survivors. Ultimately, it serves as a beacon of hope for others facing similar struggles while embracing the joys of new life.