When I found out I was pregnant, I had yet to fully acknowledge my past as a survivor of sexual assault. Just hours after the conception of my son, I sat with my partner in a therapist’s office, clenching his hand as she said the word “assault.” It was a term that had eluded me for six years, as I had long viewed that traumatic night through a lens of denial. I had shared bits and pieces with my partner, always framing it as “a regrettable night” or “a huge mistake.” But hearing the word “assault” forced a reckoning I wasn’t prepared for.
That moment shattered the reality I had built around me. I realized I had endured a profound violation, and for six long years, my mind had shielded me from acknowledging it. I had been living in a fog of confusion, unaware of the root of my despair. Even with the new understanding, I still felt an inexplicable sense of blame. I consumed books about healing, repeating to myself, “It’s not my fault,” but shame clung to me like smoke on a cherished sweater.
A couple of weeks later, the pregnancy test showed two blue lines—the child my partner and I had wished for. My heart swelled with joy, but fear crept in. For the first three months, I found myself curled up on our couch, overwhelmed by a cocktail of emotions. The physical challenges of pregnancy weren’t too bad, but mentally, I was struggling. My anxiety manifested as behaviors I could attribute to pregnancy: avoiding calls from friends and family, spending hours in front of the TV, and hiding from the world. How could I discuss my pregnancy joyfully when beneath it all lay a dark secret?
When I did manage to open up, I spoke about my excitement and fears—who isn’t nervous about childbirth? But I often felt like I wasn’t being fully honest. Typically an open book, this emotional turmoil drained me. So, I retreated, focusing solely on nurturing the life growing within me. I created a cozy space filled with books, immersing myself in preparation for birth.
As I neared the end of my second trimester, I finally found the courage to see a prenatal therapist. Her calming presence made me feel secure, yet it took several weeks before I could share my truth about the assault I had endured years prior. Through her kindness, I also acknowledged the earlier sexual assault that preceded it by a month.
There I was, pregnant and grappling with the reality of having faced violence not once but twice, and I had long buried the truth. My sense of security vanished; everything felt threatening. Trust became a foreign concept, and the increasing crime in our neighborhood added to my fears. Sleep became elusive, often interrupted by nightmares.
The world felt overwhelmingly dark and dangerous, and I worried about bringing my child into such a reality. How could I protect him when I struggled to protect myself? Yet, I managed to smile for pictures and celebrate my growing belly online, desperately clinging to fleeting moments of joy.
As my due date approached, anxiety about childbirth intensified. I tried every coping technique I could think of—meditation, breathing exercises, prayer—but nothing seemed sufficient. I feared being triggered during labor; even routine exams stirred panic. I felt exposed and vulnerable.
Yet, it was this vulnerability that opened the door to hope. Amidst my anxiety, a flicker of redemption emerged: my body and my story could begin anew. The timing of my pregnancy felt purposeful, as if my son was conceived at the moment I began to confront my past.
I reflected on the relief I felt when I recognized myself as a survivor. I felt lighter, as though years of burdens were lifting. The new life inside me symbolized the possibility of transcending the pain of my past. This was a child born of love, laughter, and joy shared with my partner.
As I navigated my pregnancy, I sensed a spiritual presence guiding me. I believed that the timing of my pregnancy was part of a greater plan, preparing my heart for motherhood while helping me face the painful truths of my past. The intertwining of revelation and gestation became a gift. In those final weeks, I felt a newfound confidence; I knew I would survive childbirth and welcome a healthy baby.
Despite my fears, I started to see light in the world again. The crisp air of autumn invigorated me, reminding me of the beauty that exists alongside darkness. I envisioned the adventures, stories, and love I would share with my son.
Today, my son is a lively little boy, nearly 18 months old, and he came into this world with relative ease despite my worries. Yes, there was pain and anxiety, but I emerged victorious, cradling the most precious gift.
So, why share this story now? I want to reach out to other women who may feel broken or afraid. I write to affirm that the darkness will not have the final say in our lives. I want to model resilience for my son; I want him to live boldly and without fear.
This journey is ongoing. I still face days of anxiety, knowing that despite my best efforts, I can’t shield my child from all harm. Each day is a lesson in trust and letting go.
One day, I will tell my son about the half marathon I walked while pregnant. I’ll share how I felt the heat of the sun and how I wanted to show him his mother’s strength. I will tell him he taught me bravery.
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Summary
This heartfelt narrative chronicles the journey of a woman who faced the challenges of being a sexual assault survivor while navigating the complexities of pregnancy. It highlights her struggle with anxiety, the process of healing, and the hope she found in bringing a new life into the world. By sharing her story, she aims to connect with others who have faced similar challenges, emphasizing resilience and the beauty of overcoming adversity.