I woke up to a swirl of confusion, my head spinning. At eight months pregnant, I found myself sprawled on the tile floor of a children’s store where my prenatal class was being held. My legs were awkwardly splayed in a V shape, and I was regretting my choice of black tights on that sweltering July day—definitely not the best option considering I hadn’t shaved in a while. Toys were scattered around me, remnants of a playful afternoon.
My husband looked worried, cradling my head in his lap. Our prenatal instructor knelt beside me, fanning me with a piece of paper while a few classmates gaped in concern. A fellow expectant mother rushed over, proclaiming, “I know first aid!” as she tried to check my pulse.
I had fainted.
Before collapsing, I had felt a wave of dizziness wash over me. I had meant to ask my husband for a place to sit but didn’t make it in time. Thankfully, my baby was fine; I instinctively fell away from my bump, and a nearby stack of toys broke my fall, explaining the crowd of concerned parents now surrounding me.
As I slowly regained my composure, embarrassment washed over me. What were my classmates thinking? Did they assume I wasn’t taking care of myself or my baby?
The reality was even stranger than that. For a long time, I felt as if my body was no longer entirely my own. It might sound far-fetched, but I seriously believed my baby was draining the life from me.
This sensation began in my first trimester. Around seven weeks into my pregnancy, I was hit with severe morning sickness. The nausea was relentless, forcing me to spend countless hours over a toilet bowl. It reached a point where I vomited for over 24 hours straight, leading to a hospital visit and a couple of IV bags to rehydrate me. Despite this, I still felt awful when I was discharged.
I tried to lead a normal life, but even simple tasks like getting ready for work took all my energy. If I was fortunate enough to keep down a slice of dry toast, that was a win. My train rides to work felt suffocating, and I was constantly thirsty.
At work, the aroma of spicy food wafting from my colleagues’ desks sent me retreating to the nearest restroom. I had once been one of the most enthusiastic members of my team, but pregnancy had drained my energy.
Nighttime brought new challenges. Acid reflux kept me tossing and turning, even as I propped myself up with three pillows. Laying down became a struggle, and as my belly expanded, it felt as though I could barely breathe. Pregnancy felt like a battle I was losing.
My appearance mirrored my internal chaos. Gone were long showers, and I often skipped makeup and wearing my contacts. My clothes were as disheveled as my hair, reflecting the turmoil I felt inside.
Standing at 5 feet 4 inches and weighing just under 100 pounds pre-pregnancy, I was petite and had just reached a healthy BMI. My doctor encouraged me to eat normally, which felt impossible given my aversion to food. As my bump grew, it seemed to dominate my entire frame, turning me into a stick figure with a protruding belly.
So, when I fainted on that hot July day, it didn’t seem surprising. It was just another sign that my baby was taking over my life. I never voiced these thoughts; they felt unmotherly.
Was my baby truly invading my body? At the time, it certainly felt that way. But I also grappled with anxieties about labor, delivery, and motherhood. I was unprepared for this monumental shift in my life, having gotten pregnant sooner than expected. My career was on the fast track, and my husband and I had yet to settle into a permanent home. I often found myself questioning what life would look like with a child. Would I return to work? How would having kids affect our marriage? Would this little one take over my life just as she had taken over my body?
Then, on a warm summer day, I welcomed a beautiful baby girl into the world, and the feeling of invasion vanished as swiftly as it had come. The transformation was rapid and profound.
Postpartum life forced me to re-evaluate my priorities. Now, eight months into this new chapter, I dedicate whatever time I have outside of caring for my daughter to activities that truly fulfill me. Writing, which feels like a form of meditation, has become my outlet. Sharing my experiences with fellow writers has allowed me to weave storytelling into my busy life. My little girl sparked a passion within me that I had long buried.
I also reassessed my relationships, realizing their newfound importance. My bond with family deepened; I began to appreciate my mother-in-law’s advice more, understanding her intentions for her children and grandchildren. Planning family vacations with siblings and their children took on a new significance as I recognized the role family would play in my daughter’s life.
Frequently, I consider how my choices will shape my daughter. I aspire to be a role model for her, striving to live a meaningful life. Now, decisions about my career or even what to wear are filtered through the question, “What would my daughter think?”
Looking back, I feel a bit silly for my pregnancy fears. My baby wasn’t draining me; she was infusing my life with new energy. She reignited my passions, reshaped my relationships, and gave me a renewed sense of identity.
I have never felt more alive.
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Summary:
In this reflective piece, Mia Reynolds shares her experience of pregnancy and the feelings of overwhelming fatigue and anxiety that accompanied it. She describes the challenges of morning sickness, fatigue, and her eventual fainting episode during a prenatal class. Throughout her journey, she grapples with the fear of losing her identity to motherhood, only to find that her baby reawakens her passions and reshapes her relationships. Ultimately, she realizes that rather than draining her, her daughter has given her a new lease on life.