Loving your baby doesn’t mean loving every moment of carrying them.

With the hyper-awareness of our world today, we hear it from everywhere: that we should be grateful to have the gift of bearing children. And I was grateful—somewhere in there. I won’t lie: my first pregnancy was a breeze. The other two (my girls) were nothing short of a nightmare.

I couldn’t fake it. I hated being pregnant.

I hated the feeling of being trapped in my own body, the back pain, the constant sweating, the chronic nausea.

My first pregnancy did me right, but the other two did me dirty. I lost my only sibling in my twenties, so we knew we wanted three kids. But I was unprepared for just how brutal it would be the second and third time around.

During my final pregnancy with my daughter Mia, I could barely get out of bed. I had it all: chronic congestion, nausea without the relief of vomiting, sciatica, debilitating migraines—on top of caring for a special needs three-year-old and a tyrannical four-and-a-half-year-old. It felt like my body was falling apart while my life demanded I hold it all together.

And yet, every time I tried to speak about how awful I felt, I was met with some version of: “But you’re so lucky!” or “It’s all worth it in the end.” And yes, I am lucky. And yes, it was worth it. But both of those things can be true while I also admit: pregnancy wrecked me.

It broke my back, stretched my skin, fogged my brain, and took over my autonomy. I was grateful, yes—but I was also angry, lonely, and uncomfortable in a body that didn’t feel like mine anymore.

And the truth is, even after the baby is born, your body doesn’t just bounce back.

You don’t just look in the mirror and recognize yourself again. Sometimes you look in the mirror and see a stranger who survived something big. You carry not just a baby, but years of sleep deprivation, hormonal shifts, identity loss, and invisible labor.

I didn’t hate my body. I hated that I was expected to worship it in every phase without being allowed to mourn what I lost. I hated that “bounce back” culture made me feel like I was failing if I still had a belly six months later or didn’t fit into my pre-pregnancy jeans.

What I needed was grace.

Grace to grieve the changes and honor them. Space to say, “This is hard,” without someone telling me to be more grateful. I was grateful. But I was also human.

And that’s what I want other mothers to hear: You’re allowed to struggle with the changes. You’re allowed to love your baby and feel disconnected from your body. You’re allowed to mourn your former self and still show up in deep love and care for your family.

It doesn’t make you selfish. It makes you honest.

And it’s that honesty—not toxic positivity—that will eventually connect you back to yourself. Slowly. Tenderly. Truthfully.

For another post about finding yourself in motherhood, read, “The Part of Motherhood No One Prepares You For”.