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Since getting pregnant, I’ve been experiencing emotions that are unfamiliar and overwhelming. It’s like I’ve been thrown into a whirlwind of sadness and anger, feelings I never used to identify with. I’ve always been emotional, but anger? That’s something new. And it’s not just subtle irritations—I’m talking full-on rage that feels so unlike me. I don’t even recognize myself anymore.

Last night, I came home from work, already on edge, and my partner had his other children over. I lost it. I know, logically, that I shouldn’t be upset. His kids have every right to be here, and I’ve always been fine with it before. But suddenly, I found myself furious, desperate to be in a house with no children, craving peace and solitude. It’s almost as if I set myself up for failure by choosing a partner with three other kids. What was I thinking?

We ended up in a huge fight, one that nearly got physical. Thankfully, I had enough clarity to walk away before things escalated. I locked myself in the bathroom and took a long, hot shower—one of the few things that still brings me peace. I could sit in there for hours, listening to my favorite podcast, pretending I could somehow escape the life I’m living right now.

But I don’t want to live like this. I don’t want to feel like I’m constantly running away from my own emotions. I just want to be happy again. I’m tired of the anger that’s taken over. I miss the version of myself that was calm and content, the one who didn’t feel like a stranger in her own life.

Pregnancy has brought so much change—physically, mentally, and emotionally. I know hormones play a massive role in what I’m feeling, but it doesn’t make the experience any less exhausting. I never imagined I’d feel this lost during a time that’s supposed to be full of joy and excitement. I guess all I can do is take it day by day, trying to rediscover myself in the midst of the chaos.

For now, I’ll keep taking those long showers, finding little pockets of peace where I can, and holding onto the hope that this anger will fade and I’ll find my way back to happiness again.

Present day. My mind has been all over the place lately, and today is just one of those bad days that feel like they’re never going to end. I’m 7 months postpartum now, and every day is a mixture of good and bad, but today… today is a tough one. I’m tired of the bad days. If you asked my family, they’d probably say I love having them because, to them, it seems like I’m always having one. But that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Last night, things were actually going well. Everything seemed calm, manageable even. That was until my partner told me that his kids would be spending the weekend with us. And just like that, my mood plummeted. I hate when they come over. Not because of who they are, but because of who my partner becomes when they’re around. He changes. He becomes someone I barely recognize, someone I resent.

Their presence brings chaos, but not the kind that children naturally bring—this is different. There’s no discipline. No structure. It feels like they run wild, and he does nothing to stop it. And their mother? Dealing with her is just another layer of stress I don’t need. There isn’t a single thing I enjoy about those weekends. I know children should come first, but where is the line? Where is the boundary that says, “You don’t get to treat me like this”?

The lack of discipline causes huge problems between us. I freeze under the pressure of the chaos, while he grows angrier, eventually lashing out at me. He says cruel things—things that cut deep. “I hate you.” “You’ve ruined my life.” “No wonder you were single for so long.” And he says these things in front of the kids. Then I cry. I can’t help it; it’s a natural reaction. But crying? That only makes things worse. He gets angrier, accusing me of making the kids uncomfortable with my tears.

Why do I stay? Why do I stay with someone who clearly hates me, or at least acts like he does in these moments?

And then things get physical.

So far, he’s broken two doors by pushing me into them. He’s thrown my dresser across the room, breaking it in the process. There’s a growing list of things he’s destroyed in his fits of rage, and I’m starting to feel like I’m next.

I wish I was strong enough to walk away. But I’m not. Not right now. I’ve burned every bridge. My mental health has taken a toll on all my relationships, and I don’t have the money or resources to do this on my own. So here I am. Stuck. Stuck in this hell, just a little while longer.

There’s this flicker of hope, though—a small part of me that knows I can’t live like this forever. I’ll figure it out, somehow. Maybe it’s just going to take time. Maybe I’ll get stronger. Maybe the next bad day will be the last one.

But for now, I’m just surviving. One bad day at a time.

After I gave birth to my daughter, I thought things would get better. I thought that once she arrived, the pieces of my life would start falling into place. But I was wrong. So very wrong. The truth is, it got worse. Much worse.

The birth itself was a traumatic experience—I ended up delivering my baby on the couch, alone. That trauma lingered, and I believe it all started unraveling in the hospital. From the moment she was born, something inside me disconnected. I wanted nothing to do with her. I didn’t want to hold her. I didn’t want to look at her. I didn’t even want to be in the same room with her. But I had no choice. People around me expected me to be overjoyed, to feel this overwhelming sense of love and connection. Instead, I felt nothing but distance.

One day, they asked me to change her diaper. I looked at her, so tiny and innocent, and I just sobbed. It wasn’t her fault, but I wanted no part of it. I was supposed to feel maternal instincts, I was supposed to feel love, but all I felt was guilt and shame. It was then that I began to believe what everyone had been telling me—maybe I wasn’t cut out to be a mother. Maybe they were right.

When I finally brought her home, things only spiraled further downhill. I didn’t like her, and I convinced myself she didn’t like me either. Everyone else could hold her and she would be fine—quiet, content, even happy. But when I held her, she would scream, like she could sense that I wasn’t bonding with her the way a mother should. That feeling of rejection tore me apart. Every scream felt like confirmation that I was failing, that I wasn’t fit to be her mother. I started to cry with her, feeling completely defeated.

I remember the moment I gave up. I called my mom, sobbing, telling her, “I can’t do this. My baby hates me.” The words came out between gasps for air as I sat there, drowning in my own guilt. I felt like an absolute failure. Here I was, with this beautiful child, and I couldn’t be the mother she needed. I was supposed to prove everyone wrong. I was supposed to rise to the occasion, to show them I could be a great mom. But I wasn’t.

Motherhood is often painted as this glowing experience full of joy and fulfillment. But for me, it was the opposite. It was isolating, heartbreaking, and full of guilt. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was suffering from postpartum depression—a dark, suffocating cloud that made me question everything, especially my ability to be a mother.

Looking back, I know now that it wasn’t that my daughter hated me. It wasn’t that I wasn’t capable of being a mother. I was struggling with something much deeper than I could understand in that moment. I needed help, and I didn’t even realize it.

If you’re reading this and you’ve felt or are feeling the same, I want you to know that you are not alone. Postpartum depression is real, and it can make you feel disconnected from your baby and yourself. But it doesn’t make you a bad mother. It doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means you’re human, and sometimes, we need help to navigate the hardest times in our lives. And that’s okay.

Pregnancy is often described as one of the most joyful, transformative times in a woman’s life. But for me, it was the opposite. This is when my relationship with my boyfriend began to unravel, and the man I thought I loved became a stranger. The shift was drastic, almost like a switch flipping from day to night. What once felt like love turned toxic, and I found myself in an environment filled with mental, verbal, and eventually, physical abuse. Things got bad. Really bad.

I remember being embarrassed about my pregnancy. It’s not something you hear often—someone hiding their pregnancy—but that was my reality. I didn’t share the news with many people, concealing it as long as I could. By the time I was seven months pregnant, most people had no idea. I’d only gained about 20 pounds, which helped me keep the secret. But, the weight I carried emotionally was far heavier than anything I put on physically.

The most painful part of my pregnancy wasn’t even the morning sickness or the discomfort. It was the relationship I was trapped in. Nights were long, spent crying alone, questioning my worth. The verbal abuse became a constant echo in my mind—name-calling, belittling, tearing me down until I no longer recognized myself. The arguments? They were frequent, and often escalated to something physical. I would look at myself in the mirror and ask, “How did my life get here? How did I, someone who always prided herself on being strong and no-nonsense, end up in this situation?”

I’ve always been the type of woman who wouldn’t tolerate disrespect. So, why was I tolerating it now? Why was I still holding on to a relationship that was clearly falling apart, with so much abuse? One line still haunts me to this day. I’ll never forget when he told me, “I’m only with you because you’re pregnant.” That cut deeper than anything else he ever said. It was the final blow to my already fragile spirit.

Despite the abuse and the painful words, I wanted this to work out. I desperately wanted to be a family, even though, deep down, I knew better. I knew he wasn’t the right person for me, especially after seeing how he’d handled his past relationships—two other families, neither of which he had time for. Yet, there I was, hoping against hope that he’d change for me, that he’d change for us.

But why? Why was I so fixated on making him love me? I’d never had trouble attracting men before. I was an attractive woman, used to male attention. So, why was his validation the only one that mattered to me? And more importantly, why was I letting someone treat me this way?

These are the questions I struggled with every day. It took time, reflection, and a lot of heartache to start finding the answers. My pregnancy was supposed to be a time of new beginnings, but it became the darkest chapter of my life. Yet, even in the darkest times, there are lessons. This journey forced me to face my own fears, my self-worth, and ultimately, the realization that I deserved better.

If you’re in a similar situation, know this: you are not alone. You are not defined by someone else’s inability to see your worth. And above all, you deserve love that lifts you up, not drags you down.

I’ll fill in the details later, but for now, I want to talk about the 48 hours leading up to the birth of my daughter. It was an intense, emotional whirlwind that I’ll never forget.

My daughter was due on February 8th, 2024, and I had an appointment with my OBGYN that day. If I hadn’t already gone into labor, I was scheduled for a membrane sweep to help things along. At the appointment, they advised me to walk around afterward to speed up labor. Eager to meet my baby, I did exactly that.

That night, things took a turn. My water broke—or at least, I thought it did—and I began to have strong contractions. But it wasn’t your typical labor pain; it was all in my back, the dreaded back labor. I was in so much pain that I called my partner, who was at work, and told him to come home immediately to take me to the hospital.

Once we arrived, the staff told me something I wasn’t prepared to hear: my water had not broken. They said I had just peed my pants. I couldn’t believe it. I felt like I was going crazy. I knew what it felt like to pee myself, and this was definitely different. Yet, they insisted I go home.

Back at home, the pain was unbearable. I was throwing up and getting dizzy from the intensity of it all. Still, I tried to be strong. The next day, on February 9th, the pain was even worse. I knew something was wrong, so I went back to the hospital, determined to find out what was happening. Once again, they told me I wasn’t in labor and that I wasn’t having contractions. Was I really losing my mind? How could this much pain not be labor?

I was about 5 cm dilated, and yet they wouldn’t admit me unless I wanted an epidural. I had always planned on having a drug-free birth, so I declined. I pleaded with them to let me stay, telling them I was in so much pain I could barely function, but they insisted I would be more comfortable at home. So off I went, still throwing up, in agony, barely able to walk.

On the way home, my boyfriend stopped by McDonald’s, grabbing me a milkshake and a Spicy McCrispy to help distract me. But as the night wore on, the pain only worsened. I tried distracting myself by scrolling through TikTok, but soon, the pain became unbearable. I called out to my boyfriend, telling him I needed the drugs after all. He came rushing out to help me.

And then it happened—something I never expected. I couldn’t move. I felt paralyzed. I was in such shock that I didn’t realize her head was already out. I was giving birth right there, on my couch, just hours after being sent home from the hospital.

In the end, my daughter was born in the most unexpected way—without the drugs, without the hospital, and right in our living room. Those 48 hours leading up to her birth were some of the most confusing and painful moments of my life, but they taught me just how strong I could be when it mattered most.

The journey was not what I planned, but the moment I held her, everything else faded away.

The next part of this journey was the most difficult so far—telling my partner that I was going to keep the baby. It’s strange how our minds sometimes shield us from painful memories because I can’t remember much about the conversation. What I do remember is the feeling. He was upset—very upset. That moment was the beginning of what I can only describe as a nightmare.

Even though the details are fuzzy, some things have stayed with me, especially the cruel words he spoke. He told me he would resent me and the baby, and that I had ruined his life. Instead of feeling supported, I was shamed for my decision. The guilt and the sorrow I already felt were only made worse by his reaction. This was the moment my depression truly began. And here I am, still living in the shadow of it today.

I desperately wanted to feel happiness, to be uplifted in this life-changing moment. But instead, I was met with judgment and rejection.

After breaking the news to him, I told a few close friends. Almost all of them agreed with him, echoing that I wasn’t making the right choice by becoming a mom. Their lack of support hit me hard, but it also sparked something inside me—a desire to prove them all wrong. I clung to the hope that I could show them I was stronger than they believed, that I could handle this.

But seven months postpartum, I began to feel like maybe they were right. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for this. I don’t feel like a good mom. In fact, I feel like I’ve failed. But that’s a story for another time.

For now, I just want to share this part of my journey. A journey full of hurt, shame, and unanswered hopes. But also one where I’m trying to find my way, despite everything.

Making the decision about my pregnancy was one of the hardest moments in my life. I was living my worst nightmare, one I never thought I’d face. Here I was, almost 30 years old, staring down a future that was so far from the life I had imagined for myself. If I had this baby, I thought, my life would be over—or at least, the life I had known would be. There were so many “no mores” that came with this realization. No more traveling whenever I wanted, no more indulgences like getting my nails done, and definitely no more luxury of having a cleaning lady. The freedom I’d always had felt like it was slipping through my fingers.

I had never said no to myself. I never had to. My life had been about possibilities and choices, but this felt like an ultimatum. I didn’t know how to cope with that.

After a lot of internal back-and-forth, I turned to Google. Planned Parenthood seemed like the obvious first step, but instead, I found a place called Options, just 20 minutes away from where I lived. I made an appointment to see what my choices were for terminating the pregnancy. It felt like the only way I could regain control over my life.

The day of the appointment came, and I found myself in the basement of a medical building. The space didn’t look like what I had expected. There were pictures of babies everywhere, which felt like an emotional ambush. It became clear quickly that this wasn’t the kind of clinic I had imagined. Still, I pushed through and saw a nurse.

They gave me an ultrasound to confirm the pregnancy, and I was handed a small black-and-white image. They said it was my baby, but I didn’t see anything—nor did I want to. The nurse asked if I wanted to keep the picture, but I refused. All I wanted was to get through this and end the pregnancy as early as possible.

Then the nurse did something that surprised me. She asked if she could pray for me, for the decision I was making. I wasn’t comfortable with it. I had already made up my mind, or so I thought. Even after I said no, she prayed anyway. It felt invasive, but I was in such a daze that I just asked to leave. And I did—quickly.

A few days later, I made an appointment with an OBGYN. I was resolved: I wasn’t going to have this baby. This was my decision, and I wanted to explore my options medically. But during the appointment, I was told something I hadn’t expected to hear. I was at high risk for blood clots and even a stroke if I went through with the abortion. The fear that settled in at that moment was heavier than I anticipated. It wasn’t just about losing the life I had known; it was about my health, my safety.

Suddenly, having the baby didn’t seem as terrifying as the alternative. But it still felt like a bad dream that I couldn’t wake up from. I was stuck. And this was just the beginning.

I had to come to terms with the fact that this pregnancy, something I never wanted, was going to change everything. The freedom I cherished felt like it was slipping away, and with it, the sense of who I was. But somehow, even in the chaos, I knew that this wasn’t the end of my story—just a new chapter I had never planned on writing.

And so, the journey began.