As soon as a woman’s pregnancy becomes apparent, she quickly realizes that people around her have an abundance of opinions, questions, and unsolicited advice. From comments like “Make sure to catch up on sleep now, as you won’t get much later” to inquiries about the baby’s gender and remarks about her growing belly, the barrage can be overwhelming. While some comments may be innocuous, others can be unexpectedly hurtful.
I used to be one of those individuals who joined in the conversation, oblivious to the fact that discussing someone’s pregnancy can be incredibly personal. My perspective shifted dramatically during my second pregnancy. At 20 weeks, I learned that my daughter, whom we named Ava, was diagnosed with a severe heart defect and was unlikely to survive until birth. Even if she did, her future was grim.
For the 12 weeks that followed, I was caught in a painful limbo, waiting to see if Ava would continue to move or if we would have to confront the inevitable. Friends and family were supportive, but my pregnancy bump didn’t carry any indication of the heartbreak I was experiencing. Strangers continued to bombard me with the same cheerful questions. “You must be thrilled!” a woman at the grocery store exclaimed. In reality, “thrilled” was nowhere near the emotional spectrum I was experiencing—“terrified,” “devastated,” and “heartbroken” were far more accurate descriptors.
Another time, while at a parenting group, a fellow expectant mother asked if I had prepared the nursery. I often heard comments like, “Wow, are you sure you’re not having twins?” My belly was large due to excess amniotic fluid, a direct result of Ava’s condition. Faced with these constant inquiries, I had a choice: reveal the uncomfortable truth or pretend everything was fine. I only attempted honesty once, leading to an awkward interaction that left both parties feeling uneasy.
After losing Ava, my body took a long time to heal; in fact, it never returned fully to its pre-pregnancy shape. I found solace in food and wine, and as a result, I still appeared pregnant months later. While out with my daughter, people would naturally assume I was expecting again. The cycle of questions continued, and when I would respond honestly, saying, “I’m not pregnant,” it often resulted in embarrassment for the person asking.
Eventually, I reverted to my previous strategy of feigning excitement. It felt unjust that I had to pretend to be a joyful pregnant woman after suffering such a loss. It was simply easier to navigate the conversations that way. I wanted to share my grief over Ava with those close to me, not with strangers.
After a few months of this, I found a better solution: I stopped going out. I began focusing on losing my post-caesarean belly, which was the last thing I wanted to prioritize at that moment. Yet I understood that if I wanted to avoid pregnancy inquiries, I had to make a change.
Every bump carries a narrative, and while most are joyful, you never know the circumstances behind them. I’ve learned that unless you’re privy to someone’s personal story, making assumptions can be incredibly hurtful. I hold no resentment toward those who asked about my pregnancy; it’s societal norm to engage in such discussions. However, it’s time we rethink this approach. Much like how I would never question a childless couple about their choices, I will refrain from asking pregnant women about their bumps.
So, if you spot me at a café or playgroup and see a lovely bump, I won’t engage in conversation about it. Understand that this isn’t rudeness; it’s simply my way of respecting the unknown complexities of your situation. You likely won’t appreciate unsolicited parenting advice or comments on your belly size anyway. Unless you choose to share your pregnancy story with me, it’s truly none of my business.
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In summary, I’ve learned that engaging in discussions about pregnancy can be sensitive and complex. It’s essential to approach these topics with care and respect for each individual’s unique experience.