Not glowing

I am struggling to relate to other mothers’ pregnancy experiences.

Since drafting this, my life has been divided into pre-baby and with-baby, the way many of us talk about life pre-Covid: “when did that happen? It was definitely before Covid…”

I still thought it important to publish. I feel it is true, still relevant, and worth sharing even if only tenuously linked to my life as a migrant.

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“Oh how lovely, enjoy it!”

“The healthiest I ever felt.”

“Isn’t it magical?”

I knew, of course, that pregnancy would be uncomfortable. I expected symptoms. I expected moments of pain. I understood, intellectually, that my body would change and that some of those changes would be difficult.

What I did not expect was nine solid months of real pain, in all its forms and variations.

A constant abdominal ache. Kicks and fetal movement that stop whatever I’m doing. Contractions every night from week 25. Limb numbness and sleep cycles cut in half at a time we’re supposed to be resting. Nausea and food aversions. Exhaustion.

Which is why I’m so confused as to why so many people have told me to “enjoy my pregnancy.”

I accept this from men, but mothers?

Enjoy what, exactly?

I am unsure if I’m being gaslit or if their experiences really are so drastically different. I know society doesn’t “welcome” moaners, and much of being a mother is romanticised, but I am surprised nonetheless. Does this only happen in Mexico? Is it a symptom of Catholic matyrdom and female oppression?

The swelling. The back pain. The unfamiliar weight and shape of my own body. The constant Catch 22 that I’m too tired to get up, but in too much pain to stay lying down.

When did we start to enjoy being kicked when we’re down?

I have heard mothers speak about the joy of feeling their baby kick. They describe it as magical. Reassuring. A reminder of life.

I wait for it to pass.

It’s pain within a body that’s already stretched beyond what feels like its natural limits, stretching further.

I do have explanations, at least in part. I have IBS. I was prescribed a muscle relaxant for my uterus a month ago. These are not universal experiences and they shape this experience for me.

Still, I am left saying over and over again: “anyone who does this twice is a loon.” And I’m not even 10% joking

Forget-me-nots

People joke about post-natal hormones as if they are a kind of amnesia. As if they sweep in and blur the edges of what happened before. I wonder if that’s true. I wonder if the brain is kinder in hindsight than it is in the present.

Because from here, today, it is difficult to imagine forgetting. Maybe I am writing this down for me in 2027, not for you.

There is something else I have noticed, too. The way pregnancy is spoken about, especially in retrospect. The softness that settles over the memories. The way the pain becomes a footnote. The way the story bends toward beauty.

I don’t doubt that the beauty of having our little one here is real, and that’s why I say to myself and anyone I complain to: “it’ll all be worth it.”

That said, I feel a little resentful. I don’t feel regret. Not regret of the decision.

I feel surprised.

Surprised that this version of pregnancy exists so quietly alongside the glowing one.

Surprised at how rarely it is described in plain terms.

Surprised at how alone it can feel, even when you are surrounded by people who have done the exact same thing.

So, here I am telling future-Nadine that this was unrelenting, painful, and debilitating.

Not magical. Not glowing.

But what about after the birth? (Subty skipping over that bit of horror because gore is not my Substack genre.) I’ve heard how hard post-partum is as well as how beautiful.

People tell us the hard bit is coming, to rest now, to meal prep as though we were to be 2020 quarantined again… I can only imagine that postpartum is 10x worse than where I am, such that retrospect makes pregnancy look like a walk in the park, hence justifying its romanticisation.

But I’m unconvinced. At least post-partum, I will have my little babe to snuggle, and distract me from the pain.

What really worries me about being a migrant mum

We have a wonderful network of generous, stimulating, and kind friends—it’s taken 15 years to build it but every moment has been delightful. That said, it’s not the same to have a friend I can call to cheer me up over coffee and buscuits in our PJs (and me in post-partum pads with leaky boobs) as it is to call a family member because you just need someone to warm you a can of soup and sweep the kitchen whilen you stare at the ceiling.

I don’t think this would worry me as much in England. The family-centric culture in Mexico is what makes me concerned. Much of the system is designed to work assuming you have a mum, an aunt, or a granny who not only doesn’t work, but is physically well enough to nurse you back to health.

I lack that family structure in Mexico City. My partner too.

Maybe it won’t be that hard though. It definitely won’t be as hard as pregnancy.

I’ll update you in a few weeks, I expect!

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If you stick around, much of this will make sense and I think you’ll find the context interesting. Thank you for reading with kindness and openness to all experiences.