I think it’s finally starting to hit me. . . I’m pregnant. I mean, when I look at myself in the mirror, it’s clear that my belly is growing and that my boobs are getting bigger, but I have struggled to accept this pregnancy. From the beginning, my emotions have been unbalanced, my expectations have soared and faltered, and my anxiety has been a constant burden – all while I’m supposed to be deliriously happy.
I don’t know when I started harboring the delusional idea that becoming pregnant was going to suddenly make everything okay. Hah! Like anyone can be recklessly happy with a pregnancy coming off of the heels of a miscarriage, two years of infertility treatment, and large amounts of anxiety. Hell, even women who don’t go through infertility still struggle with accepting pregnancies due to other reasons. But I sincerely thought that my struggles would have zero impact on my emotions, and that by this point I would be bursting with joy and gratitude . . .
I do feel thankful. And my anxiety is starting to wane. But I still feel infertile. A tiny part of me still expects the other shoe to drop where the doctor has to sit me down and tell me the horrible news. Sadly, I don’t think that sensation will ever go away. . . but my joy is increasing. Everyday I feel a little bit more connected to the pregnancy and the idea of holding this baby in my arms. And I know that things could still go wrong, but I have to officially admit to myself – I am pregnant!