By Lauren Benson 
Seven years after I gave birth to my youngest child, I made an appointment with my primary care physician. I was 42, had been sick and fatigued, and thought I might have diabetes, thyroid cancer, or be going into menopause. When she asked if I could be pregnant, I laughed. I mean, it had been six months since my husband and I had been intimate—not the recipe for pregnancy.
Then, the hCG test came back at 66,000. Shocked doesn’t even begin to encompass my feelings.
A little backstory: When our youngest was two, my husband and I tried for a year to have another baby. I was tracking my cycle, taking my basal temperature, clearing the Dollar Tree shelves of pregnancy tests—but nothing. We even set an appointment with an IVF doctor, but at the last second, I canceled. If it wasn’t happening, it wasn’t meant to be. I made peace with the idea that our family was complete. I moved on to the next phase of our life; I joined a softball league, started another small business, began fostering puppies, and adopted another one. Our kids were becoming more independent, and life was finally manageable.
And now, here I am, so “geriatric” I could probably use a walker, trying to wrap my head around another pregnancy. The first trimester was a solid 0/10. I got the flu and a kidney infection within a week of each other. I could barely keep my eyes open, and when I could, I was throwing up. Our two boys were in the thick of sibling rivalry, and the reality of having to do the infant stage all over again had set in. I was off my ADHD medication, and my anxiety was at an all-time high. My mental health was deteriorating quickly.
I felt guilty for being sad and stressed out. For years, I had wished for another baby, and now that wish had come true. So why wasn’t it followed by the same joy and excitement I’d felt with my other two pregnancies? I felt like something was being taken away from me, not given to me. I would lie awake at night wondering if I would resent this baby for disrupting our lives, which we had worked so hard to stabilize. I was either crying or yelling; there was no in between.
Finally, after feeling so ashamed about my feelings, I vocalized my thoughts to my husband, close friends, and family. At my next appointment, I asked to be put back on my ADHD medication, and my doctor immediately sent in the prescription. Within days, the clouds started to part. Instead of feeling overwhelmed by despair, I began to manage my thoughts more effectively. I won’t lie and say my feelings disappeared, but they don’t take over my brain anymore. Once in a while, I still think, “WHAT IS ACTUALLY HAPPENING?” But then, the baby kicks, or my youngest gives me a hug, and I remember how amazing this will be, even if it’s hard.
The mental load most mothers carry far exceeds what we should and actually can endure. No woman should ever feel shame or guilt over feeling the weight of parenthood. It is hard—harder than it’s ever been. I remember my midwife saying to me when I had my first child, “You are allowed to mourn the life you had before.” She made me feel so seen, and that sentiment has always stuck with me. So much of ourselves is given up for the sake of a child: our body, our sleep, our space, our peace. It’s okay to feel that and still be an amazing mom. It’s okay to not be okay. It’s okay to say the less-than-glamorous thoughts out loud. It’s okay to ask for help.
by Brandi Jarrett 
by Sharon Beaudoin 
