When I found out I was pregnant, I had yet to truly acknowledge that I was a survivor of sexual assault. Just hours after my son was conceived, I sat in a therapist’s office with my partner, gripping his hand tightly as she uttered the word “rape.” It was a term I had never applied to my own experience from six years prior, which I had long dismissed as a “huge mistake” or “taking advantage.” But the truth was undeniable: it was rape.
This revelation turned my world upside down. I had endured a deeply personal violence that my mind had shielded me from recognizing all those years. For six long years, I lived in a fog of confusion and despair, unaware of the source of my pain. Even now that I understood, I still felt an unwarranted sense of responsibility. I read self-help books, repeated mantras like “it’s not my fault,” yet the lingering shame was as stubborn as a stain that refused to wash out.
Just two weeks later, a positive pregnancy test showed two little blue lines—the child my partner and I had fervently wished for. I felt joy mixed with fear.
The first trimester was a blur of anxiety. Although I faced the typical physical symptoms of pregnancy, my emotional state was a different story. The anxiety within me grew, manifesting in ways I could easily attribute to pregnancy—hiding at home, binge-watching shows, avoiding calls from friends and family. I felt overwhelmed by emotions, teetering on the brink of a breakdown. How could I engage in joyful pregnancy conversations when I was hiding such a dark secret?
When I mustered the energy to discuss my pregnancy with loved ones, I shared my excitement and fears (who isn’t afraid of childbirth?), but I never felt completely transparent. As someone who usually expresses her emotions freely, this lack of honesty was exhausting. I withdrew into myself, focusing solely on nurturing the life growing within me. I created a cozy nest of blankets and books, consuming everything I could about childbirth.
As I approached my second trimester, I finally sought the help of a prenatal therapist. She was calming and supportive, making me feel safe enough to share my harrowing past. After several weeks, I revealed the full extent of my trauma, including an earlier assault that had preceded the rape.
Now, here I was: very pregnant, hormonal, and emotional, grappling with the dual reality of preparing for motherhood while reconciling the violent violations of my past. My sense of safety felt shattered. Trust was a foreign concept, and the fear of the world around me intensified, especially as our neighborhood faced a surge in crime. My husband, a medical resident, was often away, and I found myself plagued by nightmares.
It felt as though I was bringing my child into a world rife with danger. How could I protect him when I struggled to protect myself? Yet, I plastered on smiles for photos, shared my growing bump online, and donned cheerful outfits for baby showers, clinging desperately to any joy I could find.
As my due date drew nearer, the anxiety surrounding childbirth grew overwhelming. I tried everything—self-hypnosis, meditation, breathing exercises, and prayer—but it didn’t seem enough. I feared that labor might trigger memories of my trauma; even routine examinations were daunting. I worried about the pain, the possibility of shutting down mentally, and the unpredictability of labor itself.
In the midst of this vulnerability, however, I found a glimmer of hope. I began to see my pregnancy as a chance for redemption: my body and my story could be renewed. The timing of my son’s conception felt almost serendipitous, occurring just as I began to confront the truth of my past.
I reflected on the relief I felt when I finally embraced my identity as a survivor. I could feel the weight lifting off my shoulders, as if years of denial were melting away. My son represented a promise of hope, a new beginning crafted from the love my partner and I shared.
God seemed to guide me through this tumultuous journey, preparing my heart for motherhood while revealing the hard truths of my past. As my pregnancy progressed, a quiet confidence began to replace my anxiety. I sensed that I would emerge from childbirth stronger and would welcome a healthy child into the world.
Despite my fears, the sun began to shine a little brighter, the air felt crisper, and the vibrant colors of autumn filled me with a renewed sense of beauty and goodness. I was reminded of the adventures and stories I wanted to share with my son.
Now, almost 18 months later, my son is a lively little boy with a playful grin. Despite my fears and anxieties, he came into the world without major complications. Yes, there was pain and fear, but I emerged victorious, holding the most precious gift in my arms.
So, why do I share this personal and painful story now? Because I know I’m not alone. Many women feel broken and afraid, and I want to be a voice of resilience in a world that often feels dark. I’m sharing this to show that healing and beauty can rise from ashes. I want to guide my son by example, teaching him not to live in fear or hide from his past.
My journey is ongoing; I still face days filled with anxiety about protecting my child. Each day is a lesson in faith and trust. Someday, I’ll share with him the story of the half marathon I walked while eight months pregnant, how I pushed through the heat and discomfort, all the while thinking of him and the strength I wanted to show.
He taught me to be brave.
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Summary:
This article recounts the challenges faced by a rape survivor during her pregnancy, highlighting the emotional hurdles of anxiety while preparing for motherhood. It emphasizes the importance of hope and resilience, as well as the support found through therapy and self-reflection. Ultimately, it serves as a message of strength and solidarity for others who have endured similar trauma.
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