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Restrictions have finally eased. My older children are back to their summer camps, happily playing sports without masks and enjoying playdates with friends. I’m vaccinated and can shop for groceries without worry, leisurely stroll through Target with a coffee in hand, and even attend a spin class. Thankfully, I didn’t lose anyone to COVID; instead, I welcomed my fourth child into the world.
I discovered I was pregnant with my beautiful daughter just two weeks before the country went into lockdown. For thirty-eight weeks, I held my breath, isolated my family, attended prenatal appointments solo, and even labored while wearing a mask. In the end, we stayed free from COVID, my baby was born healthy, and we’ve remained well. Now, as life returns to some semblance of normalcy, I can’t shake this unsettling feeling.
It feels like a tidal wave in my chest, one I suppress by distracting myself with the daily tasks of motherhood and focusing on the present with my kids. Yet, in the midst of unwrapping a string cheese for my daughter, I’m suddenly reminded of last spring when I was home alone with my three kids, grappling with debilitating nausea, remote schooling, and isolation from family and friends. I recall attending my anatomy scan right after the CDC warned that pregnant women faced increased risks from COVID, and how overwhelming it was to balance my fears while trying to keep my family safe and sane.
I think back to the immense pressure I faced as a wife and mother, making decisions for our family that others couldn’t possibly understand. The weight of carrying a baby during a global crisis, with everyone around me dealing with their own anxieties and needs, was a heavy burden. When these feelings resurface, I default to focusing on the string cheese, completing that task before moving on to the next. Facing those emotions—acknowledging the fears and sadness tied to all of this—feels like something I just can’t handle yet.
Social situations feel strange as well; I know I’m not alone in this. I’m grateful to be able to attend events and host gatherings, but there are moments when I feel overwhelmed, wanting to scoop up my four kids and retreat indoors. I can’t pinpoint what triggers these feelings, but they linger, and I navigate through them for my children’s sake.
I find myself clinging to my eight-month-old daughter, whom I affectionately call my “emotional support baby.” She stays close to me, and I only feel comfortable leaving her with my husband, whereas I could easily let my other children spend time with family or friends. I worked so hard to keep her safe for so long that I struggle to let go. I question whether anyone else can protect her like I can, but I’m trying to work through that. There’s a unique bond with a baby that has grown inside you during a pandemic, and it has changed me.
One day, I’ll confront all these tidal waves of emotions. Or maybe I won’t—perhaps they will slowly fade over time. For now, I’m still feeling a bit off-kilter, not entirely okay. I’m giving myself permission to sit in this discomfort for a while—and I encourage you to do the same—because, wow, that was hard. Moving past it isn’t a simple task.
For related insights, check out this resource on artificial insemination and this excellent guide on pregnancy and home insemination.
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In summary, the experience of becoming a mother during the pandemic has brought a unique set of challenges and emotions. As restrictions lift and life begins to normalize, the author grapples with feelings of anxiety and attachment to her baby, born amidst the crisis. She recognizes the importance of allowing herself to process these emotions, offering a compassionate reminder to others who may be feeling similarly.