This past weekend John and I went to a four-and-a-half-hour birthing workshop offered by our doulas. I was dreading it. (And just because I have a firm belief that nothing should last more than two and a half hours.) I imagined I would be met with two other moms overflowing with enthusiasm about their upcoming deliveries. They would probably expect the same reaction from me. Wasn’t I just so excited to finally meet my baby?

No, I would reply stoically, ruining the entire afternoon for everyone, I am not.

Through sheer luck, and one of the couples not showing up, I managed to avoid this interaction. But I know I am not out of the woods. People light up when they find out you’re expecting. They look for confirmation that this is wonderful news, and you are brimming with anticipation. I suppose this is a far better response than an icy silence or a dramatic yikes. I have no ill will toward people who assume I’m happy about something I actively chose to do over months of careful planning and strategic decision making. I’m just pissed that their assumptions make it impossible for me to ignore a major pain point: the fact that I’m not experiencing pregnancy the way I had hoped.

To be clear, I never expected to enjoy pregnancy. I knew it would be physically uncomfortable and taxing. I figured I would puke my brains out and struggle with hormonal changes that would impact my mental health. I didn’t think I’d be one of those people who radiate from an internal glow as they prance around in beautiful dresses, rubbing their perfectly mounded belly. But I did believe I would feel something for my baby other than dread and disconnection. I imagined myself chatting to my child throughout the day and trying to figure out what they looked like inside my body at each stage. As my sister recently reminded me, I love little creatures. And what is a growing fetus if not that? Surely, I would find delight in that part of pregnancy between moments of puking and wanting to extract my painful ribs from my body.

Instead, all I feel is grief. Grief that I am not relishing decorating my nursery. Grief that I haven’t felt compelled to read out loud to my baby or track his development in my womb. In another version of myself, not feeling these things would make me anxious and guilt-ridden. I’d fear that this absence of connection was a sure-fire sign that I was an unfit mother with sociopathic tendencies. I would beat myself up and try to force feelings that, after 31 weeks, are simply not there. I’m grateful that I know better than to punish myself for not responding a certain way. But that knowledge doesn’t extinguish the grief.

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At 36, I have gotten accustomed to life not going how it is promised in TV and film. I spent high school and college craving experiences that seemed to come easily to everyone else but were out of reach for me. (Like easy friendships and romantic relationships that didn’t blow up in my face.) My prom date was a friend, not even a good one, and I quit my sorority after a few years because I had no one left to hang out with at the mandatory events. My first engagement ended in what I refer to as “the great abandonment” and I can’t even drink for pleasure because I hate the taste of alcohol. (I have tried so, so many different forms of alcohol to be able to partake in the joy of libation. They all disgust me.) Public spaces and people’s living room couches terrify me because of my contamination OCD. And I struggle to feel connection to my body and sexual self in a way that has often made me feel broken. Not to mention, I lost my wonderful mom at only 35, which is the most unfair of all.

All this is to say, I have no illusions that I am owed a certain type of life or experience. I have a lot of practice coming to terms with my actual reality versus my preferred one. Yet, none of this trained acceptance stops me from continuing to want. And I really wanted to be excited about having a baby.

So far only one comment that has helped me feel better about my disappointing pregnancy. It came during an intake call with my doulas. I was expressing my feelings of grief when one of them said, “It helped when I was pregnant to think that my baby chose me.” Normally this type of woo-woo thinking wouldn’t land. I hate the phrase everything happens for a reason even more than I hate the taste of alcohol. But, however unexpectedly, this simple reframe brought me some relief.

While I might not feel connected to my son, he is undeniably connected to me. His still forming brain doesn’t have the capacity to understand what I am grappling with here. All he knows is that he is safe and warm and being fed nutrients through my placenta. I can find purpose in knowing that I am providing him with what he needs. That is markedly different than finding delight, but it is also substantially different than simply feeling disconnection. Having a sense of purpose has always been my lifeline and clinging onto it here provides a counterbalance to my grief, without erasing or invalidating it.

I have earned this grief. I am being robbed of an experience I desperately wanted. That doesn’t mean my life is ruined or that this period of time will even stick with me once my son is in my arms and I have other things to worry about. But to deny that I am feeling it would be an unnecessary betrayal. So often we are told to “get over” not getting what we want. I’m an advocate for something more nuanced, which is figuring out how to move forward with the grief still in our pocket. Holding space for the loss without losing sight of all that remains. And what remains for me right now, is the idea that my son chose me and I am going to show up for him—whether I am excited about it or not.

xoxo,

Allison

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