I followed every rule. And my uterus betrayed me anyway.
I had the NuvaRing. I wasn't being reckless. I wasn't trying for another baby. In fact, I was doing everything in my power not to get pregnant.
And yet, there I was. Visiting his sister for the weekend, wondering why I felt so off, so tired, so sick. And then I knew. That slow, creeping, suffocating realization. I was pregnant. Again.
And I was furious.
Not just at the NuvaRing. Not just at my body. But at life. At fate. At God. At everything that refused to let me have control over even this one part of myself.
I didn't want to be pregnant.
I didn't want to start over.
I didn't want to be stuck in a marriage that already felt like a cage, now bolted shut with one more nail in the door.
And here's the thing no one tells you: you can feel all that and still love the child. You can hate the situation and still protect the life growing inside you.
But you can also lose yourself in the process.
I had hyperemesis gravidarum, though at the time, nobody said those words. They just called it "bad morning sickness." Which would've been laughable if I hadn't been too busy dry heaving into a toilet for the third time that day.
I was sick every single day of that pregnancy. Not just queasy. Not just "crackers and ginger ale" sick. I mean full-body misery. Vomiting constantly. Losing weight instead of gaining it. I looked like a skeleton with a baby bump. My doctor warned me: if I didn't start gaining weight, I could miscarry.
I was hospitalized more than once.
Not for anything glamorous, just dehydration. Again. And again. There were days I couldn't keep down water. Days where my blood pressure dropped so low I could barely stand. Days where the nurse looked at my chart and gave me that tight-lipped smile that said, you're not fine, but I can't say that out loud right now.
Every time someone said 'Well, you chose this,' I wanted to throw a NuvaRing at their head.
I lived on anti-nausea meds and desperation. And peanut butter.
Creamy peanut butter, to be exact. Which, as it turns out, isn't that bad when you throw it up. Weird fact, I know. But when you've puked up everything, you start keeping track of which foods hurt the least coming back up. Peanut butter? Still coats your stomach a little. Sticks around, even after everything else is gone. Kind of like motherhood, now that I think about it.
Sticky. Persistent. Uncomfortably familiar. And sometimes, surprisingly bearable in the worst of moments.
I had to take medication just to keep food down. And even then, I was still always on the edge of nausea. I had to stop nursing Ashton at ten months. Not because I wanted to. But because my body didn't have enough calories for three people.
At my lowest, I was thirty pounds under my small high school weight. I didn't recognize the woman in the mirror. I didn't even feel human anymore.
And emotionally?
I was numb.
Disconnected.
Resentful.
— ✦ —— ✦ —— ✦ —— ✦ —
I knew from the beginning it was a girl. I insisted she was. He had always said he wanted a girl. Only a girl. As if a daughter would fix something broken in him. As if I was just the means to deliver that dream.
But she didn't feel like a dream to me.
She felt like an anchor.
And that's the truth.
I didn't want to be dragged down again. I didn't want to sink.
I say that with all the love in my heart, because I did love her. Even then, in my own fractured, protective way. I would have fought for her. I would have died for her. But I didn't feel connected to her. I didn't feel excited. I didn't feel joy.
I felt... trapped.
That feeling didn't magically vanish when she was born. It didn't vanish when she smiled, or when she crawled, or when everyone told me how lucky I was.
It took years.
She was two, maybe older, before I felt that invisible wall between us begin to crack. Before the fog started to lift and I could really see her. Not just as an obligation. Not just as a life sentence.
But as a person. A joy. A gift.
She became the light. But she didn't start that way.
And I think it's important to say that. Because sometimes motherhood isn't love at first sight. Sometimes it's a battle. Sometimes it's survival. And sometimes, it takes time to feel like you're more than a vessel, more than a prisoner with a pink plus sign.
I wasn't a bad mother for struggling.
I was a broken woman still trying to give what little I had left.
— ✦ —— ✦ —— ✦ —— ✦ —
When she was teenager, I told her the truth. Not all of it. Not the hospital visits or the nights I cried on the bathroom floor. But enough.
I told her that I struggled to feel connected when she was a baby. That it wasn't her fault. That it never was. That I was just tired and broken and trying to survive.
She didn't get mad. She didn't flinch. She just hugged me.
We have an incredible relationship now. She's strong, funny, clever in ways that make me pause and wonder how I got so lucky. That little girl I once felt so far away from? She's my best friend now.
The bond came. It just took time. And honesty. And a whole lot of healing.
So if you're a mom reading this, wondering why it doesn't feel like magic yet. Please know: the connection isn't always instant. Sometimes it comes later. Sometimes it takes growing up together. You're not alone. And you're not failing.
You're just human.
And that's enough.