Becoming a mother is a remarkable journey, an experience that begins changing you from the very first moment. At first, it almost feels like a fairytale. Hormones place a kind of soft, rose-coloured filter over everything during pregnancy. You feel deeply connected to the little life growing inside you, and those first months seem filled with a quiet kind of magic. Your body changes, your world shifts, and suddenly everything revolves around that new life taking shape within you. In those early months, nothing seems to disturb that sense of joy. You feel proud, radiant even, because you are carrying something extraordinary. The whole world can know it: I am pregnant.
As the pregnancy progressed, something began to shift. Around the sixth month, that fairytale started to blur at the edges. It was no longer just about glowing and enjoying. I could feel how this tiny human being was taking up more and more space, how my body was adjusting completely—and sometimes resisting. Everything became heavier, more uncomfortable, and those once gentle hormones began steering everything toward that one inevitable moment: birth.
In the midst of all this, something else happened. Wordfather and I, both convinced we knew exactly how children should be raised—“We would do it better!” we always said—decided to get married. At first, we thought we would keep it simple, just a quick visit to city hall. But our mothers quickly intervened. They wanted it to be a celebration, however intimate. And so it was. Even my grandmother was there, and despite our initial hesitation, the day felt warm and filled with love. It became a moment of connection—a moment where we celebrated our future as a family, together with the little life growing inside me.
Of course, I was stubborn. Medically, a C-section had been advised, but somewhere I had read that recovery after a natural birth is often quicker. That the body somehow recognises the process, as if it says: “Yes, the birth has happened—I repeat, the birth has happened.” The midwife agreed with me, though there were risks involved. The birth would take place in the hospital, and if anything went wrong, a medical team would be ready to step in. Wordfather didn’t like the idea at all—he was worried and would have preferred the safer option. But I felt determined. This was what I wanted.
The moment I had been moving toward for months turned out to be a shock. The first contractions began, and instead of the euphoria I had imagined, the only thought running through my mind was: “Was I really looking forward to this? Really?” Because anyone who has been through it knows that giving birth is one of the most intense, raw experiences you can have. It is overwhelming, painful—and yes, at times, it feels like pure hell.
But I held on. Despite the pain, the exhaustion, and the doubts creeping in, I remained determined to do it my way. And I did. A natural birth, without the medical team needing to intervene. The feeling of victory—of having faced my own fears and doubts and come through stronger—was indescribable. I had done it, against all expectations.
The moment you hold your baby for the first time, the pain seems to fade. Nature has a way of softening that memory, of shifting your focus to the miracle you have created. And it’s true: despite the sleepless nights, the diapers, the endless care, we often find ourselves thinking… maybe one more?
I still remember standing in front of the mirror two weeks after the birth. What I saw was almost unrecognisable. A pale face, dark circles framing my eyes, and a fatigue that seemed to live deep in my bones. “Is this it? Is this parenthood?” I wondered, trying to understand how I had ended up here.
By then, Wordfather had already returned to work, and I was left to find my way in this new rhythm that had completely taken over our lives. It felt as though I had suddenly been given the lead role in a play without ever seeing the script. Every day brought new challenges, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t silence that voice in the back of my mind—the one whispering that maybe I wasn’t good enough, that I would fail as a mother.
Those fears only grew heavier under the weight of new responsibilities. There seemed to be an invisible pressure everywhere—to embody the perfect image of motherhood—while inside, I felt myself quietly falling apart, piece by piece.
The past year had been a whirlwind, filled with changes that had turned our lives upside down. Wordfather and I had barely had the time to truly get to know each other before Professor Son arrived. In truth, we were still strangers, and the distance between us only grew. The first cracks in our relationship had already begun to show during the pregnancy. While little seemed to change for him—he continued his work and social life as usual—I felt the loneliness settling deeper inside me.
How many evenings had I sat there, waiting with dinner, hoping he would come home on time, only to hear once again that he had to work late? It became almost routine. I remember a scene from a film where a woman, who had to throw away dinner every night because her husband always worked late, finally snapped and dumped an entire pot of food onto his desk at work. I often played out that same act of revenge in my mind.
But actually doing it?
No… I didn’t have that kind of courage. ❤️
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