On Motherhood

Mother’s Day might seem like an odd time to reflect on things like safety and abuse. Statistically though, most victims of abuse are women, and most women become mothers. So really, maybe it’s the perfect time.

Mother’s Day has felt out of place for me this year. Maybe it’s because I’ve finally allowed myself the space and intentionality to process certain parts of my life. Maybe it’s because I’ve been leaning hard into the idea of being instead of constantly becoming. Or maybe it's because, with my youngest no longer a toddler, I’m somewhat removed from the chaotic early years of motherhood.

Whatever the reason, this Mother’s Day hits differently and I've found myself battling an unexpected emotion: grief.

I became a mother ten years ago with a man who, because of addiction and his own unhealed wounds, had no capacity to love me the way I deserved. He often talked about how badly he wanted to be a good father and experience “the unconditional love of a child.” At the time, that sounded noble. Tender, even. It would take me years to understand the other side of that statement: his complete disinterest in being a good husband. I was simply a means to an end.

I remember taking the pregnancy test alone in our tiny bathroom, the one that didn’t even have a door. Before our wedding, I had expressed wanting to wait at least a year before having children. He wasn’t onboard. He agreed we would not actively try for children but, because of his conservative religious beliefs, refused to actively prevent pregnancy either. Against my better judgment, I relented. My mother and sister had both struggled with infertility, so maybe it would take time for me too, I reasoned.

It did not. Just weeks after our honeymoon, those two pink lines appeared. I was excited. But I was also naïve.

I drove to the grocery store, bought ingredients for chocolate chip cookies—the kind with chopped walnuts— and picked up a card. That night after dinner, munching on cookies, I asked him, “Do you want to know something cool?” Placing a chopped walnut in his hand I said, “That’s how big your baby is.”

I let the words sink in for a moment before pulling the positive pregnancy test out of my sweatshirt pocket. He took it, a look of surprise on his face. Then he knelt, wrapped his arms around my stomach, and whispered, “I love you, baby,” into my belly. Sweet.

In hindsight, I see the glaring omissions.

He didn’t kiss me.

He didn’t hug me.

He didn’t tell me he loved me.

He didn’t ask whether I was happy or sad or scared.

Even in that pivotal moment, I was an afterthought.

The rest of my pregnancy followed suit. I was constantly nauseated, unable to keep much of anything down. Food tasted like sawdust. I carried emesis bags everywhere because otherwise I was throwing up into sinks, trash cans, flowerpots— whatever happened to be closest.

Eventually, the sickness and exhaustion started affecting my schoolwork. My grades slipped. As someone who had always been a straight-A Biology major, I panicked at the thought of damaging my GPA. I also knew medical school with a newborn probably wasn’t realistic. I changed my major to Nursing halfway through my junior year, reassuring myself I could always become a Nurse Practitioner or enter a bridge program later.

I worked right up until my due date. Twelve-hour shifts on swollen feet, waddling through the hallways of the ICU. One morning before work, I climbed into the passenger seat and was immediately hit with a wave of nausea. I rushed to the flowerbeds lining our driveway and threw up into them.

A few moments later, he walked out of the garage. “You’re going to make us late,” he said while I gagged into the mulch. I wiped my mouth and climbed back into the car. We didn’t speak the entire drive.

On my due date, which also happened to be my twenty-fourth birthday, I went to my OBGYN appointment hoping to hear labor was near. It wasn’t. “We have two options,” the doctor explained. “We can wait another two weeks and schedule an induction if labor doesn’t start naturally, or we can schedule a c-section tomorrow morning.”

“Where do I sign for the c-section?” I asked immediately. At the time, I thought I was simply exhausted from pregnancy. Now I understand it differently.

Growing up, childbirth had always been something I imagined enduring beside a supportive husband. Maybe family in a waiting room. Encouragement. Safety. Support. I did not feel safe with my husband. Not emotionally. Not physically. I could not imagine navigating something as painful, vulnerable, and unpredictable as labor while already feeling emotionally and physically unprotected. I needed scheduled. Controlled. Short. I needed an exit strategy. When I told him, he became irritated. “I think natural childbirth is more beautiful,” he said. Beauty was hardly my priority.

Like before, He didn’t speak to me on the drive to the hospital the morning of the c-section. I remember the freezing temperature of the operating room. Holding a pillow close to my chest while the anesthesiologist placed the spinal block. The heaviness spreading through my lower body. I remember hearing someone mention my blood pressure dropping and another voice telling me to stay awake.

What I do not remember is comfort. I do not remember my husband reassuring me, reminding me of his presence with gentle touches. I don’t remember him connecting with me at all. In my peripheral view, could make out his shadow seated beside me in scrubs and a surgical mask, peering over the drape.

He wasn’t even looking at me.

At 7:56 a.m., my daughter entered the world, and I officially became a mother. They handed her to him, wrapped in the classic pink and blue hospital blanket. I couldn’t lift my arms to hold her. The spinal block had climbed too high, and I was struggling to breathe. I smiled weakly for a photograph.

I didn’t cry.

I didn’t feel safe enough to.

My husband and daughter left for the nursery, and I was wheeled to the recovery room. Suddenly, I was alone. Then I did cry. I wanted my baby. And I wanted my mom.

Even after my daughter was born, we barely spoke. I don’t remember him asking if I was in pain, hungry, exhausted, or needed help getting to the bathroom. I remember changing my own hospital bed sheets less than twenty-four hours after surgery and I remember his frustration when I chose to stay an extra night in the hospital because he wanted to go home and watch Game of Thrones, and the hospital didn’t have HBO.

Unsurprisingly, that marriage ended shortly after my daughter’s third birthday. People often talk about the grief of divorce, but I never mourned the end of that relationship. Not once. Losing cruelty is not a loss.

Years later, in late November 2021, I found myself taking another pregnancy test. This time, I wasn’t in a tiny, door-less bathroom. I was in the bathroom of City Hall while my beat partner paced the marbled hallway right outside the door. I stuffed the wrapper from the pregnancy test I purchased at the CVS across the street into the pocket of my uniform pants and waited.

Two pink lines.

I was two years into a law enforcement career and in a happy long-term relationship. My boyfriend and I knew we wanted a baby. We’d already workshopped some names, a list of “maybes” in my notes app. Still, we wanted to wait a little longer to better align my maternity leave with the holidays. As it usually does, life had other plans. And thank God it did, because I had no idea how healing my second pregnancy would be until I was living it.

After my shift, I sped home, determined to arrive before my boyfriend did. I peeled off my bulletproof vest and duty belt, tossed them on the bed and tied the positive pregnancy test around our puppy’s collar with a large red bow.

Then, I waited. Crawling out of my skin with anticipation, I started folding laundry. Real casual.

Walking through the front door, my boyfriend noticed the bow first, looked confused, then froze. His eyes widened. His mouth fell open into a perfect mix of shock and joy. He walked straight toward me and wrapped me in a huge bear hug.

I immediately burst into tears. Happy tears. Nervous tears. Relieved tears.

This time, someone was holding me too.

He asked how I was feeling and if I needed anything. “Just sit with me,” I said. “I think I can handle that,” he joked. Then he smiled, “I already knew anyway” he added.  “Really?” I laughed.  “You fell asleep while I was playing with your hair the other night,” he said. “I was looking at you and I just knew.” Sometimes the people who love us really do know us better than we know ourselves.

And for the next nine months, he proved that love over and over again. The nausea returned just as severely as before, but everything else was completely different. I went on light duty immediately, no more bone-tiring shifts. He built the entire nursery when I was barely six weeks pregnant. He cooked, he cleaned, he lifted all the heavy things. Whatever I needed, he made sure I got it and then some.

Halfway through my pregnancy, I looked at him and quietly admitted, “I don’t want to go back to work after the baby is born.” He answered without hesitation, “Then don’t.” I was stunned.

Years earlier, my ex-husband had laughed at the idea of being a single-income household. “That’s never going to happen” he’d chortled, “You can thank the feminist movement for making it impossible for families to survive without two incomes.” Now, a man who absolutely adored me was proving him wrong. Imagine that.

Around 30 weeks, My OBGYN placed me on FMLA for blood pressure issues, and I spent the rest of my pregnancy nesting peacefully and planning our wedding. We married six weeks before our son was born in a small ceremony surrounded by closest family and friends. Everything was falling into place.

The day of my planned c-section, my husband never left my side. He laid on the bed with me in pre-op, calming the butterflies in my stomach. He sat beside me and held my hand in the operating room, talking me through it when the procedure was taking longer than expected. And when the doctor finally lifted our son’s face up over the drape, he kissed my forehead while tears streamed down my face.

I cried openly that time because I was finally safe enough to. For the first time, motherhood did not feel like survival. It felt like love.

I think that is what unsettles me most. Not just the cruelty, but the realization that I experienced so much of early motherhood feeling completely unsafe. I survived pregnancy instead of being supported through it. I endured marriage instead of resting inside it. I pretended to be strong instead of being protected.

I grieve for that younger version of me:

The new mother battling relentless sickness with little compassion.

The new mother, curled up in front of her newborn’s crib, sobbing before work.

The new mother quietly giving up pieces of herself to ensure her daughter was taken care of.

My life is completely different now but I have not forgotten her. Her pain. Her grit. Her sacrifice.

So today, on Mother’s Day, I honor the mother I was. And I think she’d be proud of how far we’ve come.