The Unsaid Side of Pregnancy Vol. 20 — WordsByEkta🌿
The Unsaid Side of Pregnancy
Pain, Partnership, and Becoming Us
I didn't expect to feel afraid. Or fragile. Or so completely new to my own skin. But when the nurse placed my daughter against my chest for the first time, all I could do was hold on — as if clutching her would somehow steady the world that had just cracked open around me.
Her tiny chest rose and fell against mine. Steady. Calm. The beeping machines faded into the background, and I just stared. My hospital gown was damp, my limbs trembling from the delivery. But my heart — my heart was wide open.
For months, I had whispered to my belly, "Tu kab aayegi? Aaj aayegi?" When will you come? Now, here she was. Real, soft, breathing. And mine.
I could still see us, four years earlier, sitting across from each other with awkward smiles and cups of chai — two near-strangers brought together by an arranged match. Our first meetings were polite, practical. Love didn't arrive with fireworks. It arrived slowly. Through shared meals, grocery runs, and quiet companionship.
Then, one day, I stood in our bathroom with a test kit in my hand while Varun lay half-asleep in bed.
"Does this mean…?" I asked, staring at the faint pink line.
"I think so," he replied.
We didn't jump or cry. I pressed the stick to my chest. He reached for my hand. We stood there in silence, and something shifted. A small, still moment — but it changed everything.
Choosing the right doctor became our first big decision. Varun dove into reviews and WhatsApp groups. I was more instinctive — "Let's just meet a few." Sitting in that clinic, layered in winter jackets, I remember thinking: This is real now.
A few days later, our first lab reports arrived. One number jumped out — abnormally high. Within minutes, we were deep in a Google spiral. My palms were clammy. Varun's face tense. We read every worst-case scenario the internet offered. All night, we barely spoke.
The next evening, the doctor smiled gently. "There's nothing to worry about. This number? It's actually a good sign."
We exhaled. For a moment, I felt weightless.
But pregnancy has a way of teaching humility.
The placenta was a little low. "No bending, no kneeling," she warned. "Avoid outside food." Simple instructions. But they transformed our lives. Varun reorganized shelves so I wouldn't have to bend. He brought coconut water, cleaned the kitchen, adjusted our routines. He didn't fuss. He just...did.
While I swore off Googling symptoms, Varun became a quiet expert. Instagram reels on progesterone, YouTube videos on neural development, articles on iron-rich fruits — he absorbed them all. If I mentioned a craving or a twinge, he'd already have a snack ready or a pillow behind my back.
Even when we bickered — "Just tell me, why should I check the reel?" — he'd roll his eyes. "You're always on your phone anyway." It wasn't romance. It was better. It was partnership.
The baby's first kick felt like a secret between us. I'd nudge Varun awake at night. "Feel that?" he'd smile in the dark. Some nights, we just lay there, hands on my belly, listening for movement. There was peace in that anticipation. A silent intimacy we hadn't known before.
But the final months tested me in ways love alone couldn't cushion.
A wisdom tooth flared up. The pain spread to my temples. I barely slept. Then came a rare pregnancy rash — itchy, burning, constant. I scratched until I bruised. My face broke out. I avoided mirrors. I felt swollen, itchy, irritable, and ashamed of my own reflection.
Infections returned despite treatments. I paced the house, snapping at small things. I resigned from my job — no maternity leave — and suddenly, I was alone, my calendar empty, my body a war zone.
Still, Varun was there. Steady. Holding space. He'd bring ice packs. Prop a pillow behind me. Hand me the right ointment before I asked.
I snapped sometimes. At him. At myself. But he never snapped back. Just sat beside me, scrolling quietly, waiting for the storm to pass.
Eventually, we hired a maid. My mom and sister-in-law moved in. The house became louder. I was grateful, but overwhelmed. My body no longer felt like mine. Neither did our home.
Each night, I whispered to my belly, "Tu kab aayegi? Aaj aayegi?" Will it be today?
She always answered with silence. Or a kick.
The doctor finally scheduled an induction for January 12th. Not the water-breaking, rush-to-hospital moment I'd imagined. Just a quiet, clinical decision. And yet — I didn't feel robbed. I felt ready.
We moved through the Google spirals and the medical scares together, shifting from "you and me" to "us."
And now, so are we.
✍️ Written by WordsByEkta🌿
🖋️ Emotional Storyteller | Writing what hearts never say aloud
💌 If you connected with my way of saying hard truths — often overlooked but deeply felt — explore one of my free letters:
wordsbyekta.gumroad.com
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