Four years ago, I wrote one of the most vulnerable posts I’d ever published. It was messy and honest and filled with questions I didn’t have answers to. I had a pregnancy scare, and instead of thinking about a baby, I mostly thought about pregnancy itself.
Now I’m writing this while very much pregnant.
It’s funny how the same topic can feel completely different depending on the season of your life.
When I reread that old post, I don’t cringe. I actually feel a lot of compassion for twenty-five-year-old me. She wasn’t immature. She wasn’t selfish. She was just scared.
Back then, Hector and I weren’t married. We hadn’t lived together yet. We were still learning each other and trying to figure out what our future even looked like. Money was constantly stressful. We weren’t just budgeting—we were surviving. Every unexpected expense felt catastrophic.
So of course an unexpected pregnancy felt terrifying.
I remember writing that during the month I thought I might be pregnant, I never imagined a baby. I thought about sore boobs. Morning sickness. My body changing. Never reaching my goal weight. Buying maternity clothes.
I only thought about the baby after the pregnancy test came back negative.
Reading that now almost makes me laugh because this pregnancy has been the exact opposite.
Don’t get me wrong—I have still complained about pregnancy. A lot.
I’ve complained about gestational diabetes. About getting stuck with needles. About swollen feet, aching hips, acid reflux, and wondering if I’ll ever sleep comfortably again. I’ve complained about food restrictions, hormones, and the fact that my baby apparently rejects half the foods I actually want to eat.
Pregnancy still isn’t exactly my favorite thing in the world.
But this time, every miserable symptom has a face attached to it.
Every kick reminds me there’s a little person in there.
Every doctor’s appointment feels less like checking on my pregnancy and more like checking on my baby.
The pregnancy isn’t the point anymore.
The baby is.
That’s probably the biggest difference.
Another huge difference is that Hector and I are in such a different place.
We’re married now.
We’ve lived together.
We’ve learned how to be partners outside of date nights and vacations. We’ve figured out who does dishes, who takes out the trash, who panics first, and who stays calm when life gets chaotic. We’ve built routines together.
We’re not rich by any stretch of the imagination, but we’re also not living paycheck to paycheck the way we once were. We can actually breathe a little. That security changes everything.
It doesn’t erase fear.
It just makes the fear manageable.
Four years ago, I questioned whether I should even become a mother. I listed all the reasons I thought I’d fail.
My anxiety.
My depression.
My relationship with my parents.
My finances.
The possibility that one day I’d end up raising someone else’s child, too.
Those fears didn’t magically disappear.
They’re still there, just quieter.
They’re no longer the loudest voice in the room.
Instead, I spend more time thinking about what kind of mom I want to be.
I think about taking my kid to Disneyland.
To the library.
To splash pads in the summer.
To baseball games.
I think about reading bedtime stories, making Halloween costumes, helping with school projects, and introducing them to my favorite movies and books.
Four years ago, motherhood felt like an abstract concept.
Now it feels like a person I’m about to meet.
Looking back, I also realize something about Hector.
During that pregnancy scare, he panicked.
I wrote about how he immediately imagined our future while I couldn’t see past the pregnancy itself.
At the time, I thought we had completely different reactions.
Now I think we were just carrying different burdens.
He was trying to figure out how we’d survive.
I was trying to figure out how I would survive.
Today, we’re imagining that future together.
We’re still nervous.
We’re still learning.
We still don’t know exactly what we’re doing.
But the fear has transformed into anticipation.
If I could tell twenty-five-year-old me one thing, it wouldn’t be, “Don’t worry, you’ll get pregnant in four years.”
It would be this:
You don’t have to have every answer before becoming excited about your future.
Life has a funny way of giving you exactly the experiences you need before you’re ready for the next chapter.
Four years ago, I was afraid of becoming pregnant.
Today, I’m counting down the weeks until I get to hold my baby.
Same woman.
Same relationship.
Completely different life.
