Introduction: The Plan That Wasn’t
We grow up with a blueprint for life: go to school, get a good job, get married, and have 2.5 kids. Then, and only then, will we have achieved the ultimate dream—happily ever after. Sounds simple, right? But what happens when life doesn’t follow the script?
High-profile women like Gabrielle Union, Angela Bassett, Courteney Cox, and Tyra Banks have opened up about their struggles with infertility, loss, and the unexpected detours of motherhood. But what about the rest of us? For me, the road to motherhood wasn’t a picturesque stroll through a sunlit park—it was an emotional rollercoaster filled with grief, anxiety, and an ongoing battle with trauma that still lingers years later.
The Anxiety Chronicles of a New Mom
I remember watching the nurses in the hospital, analyzing their every move. Some exuded warmth and care, while others seemed to function mechanically, just going through the motions. And that’s when it hit me—motherhood is the same way. Some mothers instinctively know what to do, while others, like me, are just figuring it out one uncertain step at a time.
At the time, my daughter Livi was only five months old. I was still new to this motherhood thing, navigating each milestone as it came. I wasn’t one of those moms who had her child’s entire educational journey planned out by the time they could sit up. I had a general framework (courtesy of my ever-practical husband, Vince), but mostly, I was just taking it one day at a time. The next big thing on my list? Introducing Livi to solids.
Life Never Goes as Planned
I used to be a planner. I had everything mapped out. But looking back, I realize that about 80% of my major life events did not go according to my so-called plan.
I didn’t marry any of the men I once thought I would.
The birth of our first two children didn’t happen the way I envisioned—because they never got to take their first breath.
The Sac: My First Heartbreak
At our first ultrasound, the doctor confirmed the presence of a gestational sac, affectionately known as "The Sac." But The Sac wasn’t meant to be. At seven weeks, while traveling overseas, I started bleeding. By the time I returned home, the pain was excruciating—like someone was ripping my insides apart. It was a miscarriage. My first devastating encounter with loss.
Ryan William: The Little King Who Never Came Home
Then came Ryan, our little king. I held my breath for the first seven weeks of the pregnancy.
First trimester—cleared.
Second trimester—cleared.
Then, at our routine 36-week check-up, silence filled the room. No heartbeat. The doctor tried again. Nothing. Ryan, our perfectly formed baby boy, was gone. No explanation. No cause of death. Just loss. A soul-shattering, earth-shaking, mind-numbing loss.
Olivia Amanda (Livi): The Rainbow After the Storm
If holding my breath for seven weeks was hard, try 36. My on-again, off-again relationship with anxiety became a full-blown, all-consuming love affair. White Coat Syndrome? Check. Chronic fear? Check. The inability to fully enjoy my pregnancy? Double-check.
While I cheered for my pregnant friends, I couldn’t muster the same joy for myself. A friend gifted us a fetal heart monitor, and it became my most trusted companion. Vince teased me, but I knew he was just as anxious as I was. As we neared week 36, the tension in our home was palpable.
Then, Livi arrived. And my anxiety exploded into new, terrifying dimensions.
The Birth and the Panic That Followed
As Livi lay on my chest in the recovery room, she fell asleep. My mind raced.
"Is she breathing?! Is she breathing?!"
“Kay, calm down, she’s just sleeping,” Vince reassured me in his annoyingly cool and collected tone.
"Are you sure?! Are you sure?!"
"Kay, breathe."
I wasn’t breathing. And neither was my trust in the universe.
No Latch, No Peace
When night came, she hadn’t latched. Cue full-blown panic.
“She must be starving! Something is wrong!”
One wise midwife finally explained that it could take a 36-week-term baby up to 48 hours to latch. And sure enough, she did.
The Lingering Trauma: Motherhood and the Ghosts of the Past
Years have passed since those early days, but the trauma never truly left. It lingers in unexpected ways—in the way my heart races when my child sleeps too still, in the nightmares that replay my losses, in the irrational fears that creep in at the most random moments.
People assume that once you have a healthy baby, the grief disappears. But trauma doesn’t work like that. It weaves itself into your DNA, shaping the way you love, the way you worry, the way you mother.
Even now, when I see a pregnant woman, I feel a pang in my chest. I smile, but I remember. When someone asks if I have children, I hesitate. Do I mention the ones who never made it earthside? Or do I just say "one" and swallow the lump in my throat?
Returning to Work: The Anxiety Evolves
Just when I thought I was getting a handle on motherhood, I faced another hurdle—returning to work. The anxiety shifted but didn’t disappear. I struggled with:
Being away from Livi, even though she was in excellent hands.
Finding a balance between work and motherhood.
Getting enough rest to function at work while still showing up for my baby.
Then came my worst nightmare—an involuntary separation from Livi for three weeks. And let me tell you, my anxiety didn’t blossom. It erupted.
The Truth About Motherhood
Motherhood is messy. It’s raw. It’s filled with unexpected twists, unbearable heartbreak, and indescribable joy. There’s no such thing as a perfect mom—no matter how many mommy bloggers or parenting books try to convince us otherwise.
People will judge. Strangers will offer unsolicited advice. But at the end of the day, you are the mother your child was meant to have. Figure out what kind of mother you are and own it.
You don’t have to be the most organized mom, the craftiest mom, or the mom who makes homemade organic baby food. You just have to be their mom. The best way is to know how.
And if, like me, you carry trauma with you, know that you are not alone. Healing is not linear. The ghosts may never fully leave, but they don’t have to control your story. You are still writing it, one day at a time.
And that, my friend, is more than enough.
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