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When I shared the news of my youngest child’s birth on social media, a friend who had seen me just weeks earlier reached out in disbelief. She was completely taken aback. Despite my casual outfit of shorts and a loose T-shirt, during our gathering where I lay on my back to alleviate discomfort, I thought my baby bump would be noticeable. But I hadn’t brought it up. I was in survival mode and didn’t want the spotlight.
This was not my first pregnancy announcement; I had shared the news twice before, but this experience felt entirely different. At my prenatal check-ups, I was consistently measuring small—eight weeks behind, to be exact. My urine protein levels raised concerns, leading to a diagnosis of preeclampsia. Ultrasounds indicated my baby was IUGR (intrauterine growth restriction) and there was low amniotic fluid. In my mind, I feared I was carrying a baby who might not make it. Some might argue I was overreacting, but my obstetrician understood my dread.
Just three months before I conceived this child, I had given birth to my daughter, who was stillborn. Leaving the hospital without her was gut-wrenching; I was sent home with a cardboard box of mementos instead of my baby. The pain of that loss was indescribable.
I had shared my previous pregnancy at the twelve-week mark, believing that was the norm. Everything seemed perfect until it fell apart—I succumbed to a fever and was hospitalized with sepsis, leading to a devastating loss.
Experiencing such a public pregnancy loss was complicated. Society often struggles to comprehend the grief surrounding miscarriage, leaving many well-meaning friends unsure of how to express their condolences. I attended my sister’s wedding just ten days after my loss, where most people avoided eye contact, and a few awkwardly offered their sympathies—only to me, not my husband. I even found myself uninvited to a baby shower.
In the loss community, we discuss the concept of secondary losses and traumas. The reactions I faced from others during that time were a trauma in themselves. There was no memorial service or acknowledgment of my heartache. If I became pregnant again, I wanted to control the timing of when I shared that news, not wanting to face any additional trauma until I was ready.
So when I became pregnant again soon after, I wasn’t prepared to share it during the first trimester. As the second trimester passed, I still felt unready. Although some people guessed and I was pressured to tell a few, there was no grand announcement. Many remained unaware of my condition.
By the time I reached my third trimester, complications arose: IUGR and preeclampsia. I found myself attending biweekly clinic visits and even had a frightening trip to Labor and Delivery after a long stretch without feeling my baby move. My heart was bracing for grief, not for welcoming a new life. Although I had initially planned to announce my pregnancy during this trimester, I simply couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Fortunately, my measurements being eight weeks smaller than expected helped me keep the secret. The photo above was taken the day before my induction at 37 weeks. My eldest child was eagerly anticipating a living sibling, and I clung to that hope.
Spoiler alert: we welcomed a healthy baby boy in July 2018, exactly eleven months after my daughter’s birth. He has brought immense joy to our lives.
This narrative first appeared on a blog focused on home insemination and parenting. If you are interested in learning more about adolescent education regarding home insemination, check out one of our other posts here. For authoritative information on at-home fertility options, visit this comprehensive guide.
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- Home insemination techniques
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- Understanding IUGR
- Preeclampsia signs and symptoms
- Coping with pregnancy loss
In summary, the journey of keeping my pregnancy a secret stemmed from a place of profound loss and fear. It was a protective measure as I navigated the complexities of grief and hope.
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