A Letter to My Son in Utero
You spent 9 months growing inside me during the year of 2020. In all honesty, this year has been a dumpster fire. Fraught with a deadly pandemic, heightened systemic racism, rampant forest forest fires, and a highly divisive and vindictive political climate, this year has taken its emotional toll on us all. 2020 was supposed to be a year of hope, creation and beauty. When I found out I was pregnant with you, the world felt full of promise. Little one, you are so loved and so wanted. You are the brightest star in my sky. Yet, I cannot help but feel sad that you came when you did. When asked what the hardest part of my pregnancy with you was, I have to say: 2020.
It took me a while to believe you were real. After having gotten pregnant after the first try, I didn’t want to get my hopes up, afraid it was too good to be true. It took almost a dozen positive pregnancy tests, many weeks, and continuous reassurance from Maurica, to realize you were here to stay. Once that reality sank in, the sky opened up to a beautiful future with you. While I was of course excited for the little family I would make with you and Maurica, I was more imminently excited to be pregnant. I imagined all the things you and I would do together in the 9 months you would grow inside me. I dreamt of people fawning over my pregnant belly, feeling you kick, of prenatal yoga classes where I would meet other moms to be, of monthly massages, of trips to the beach to show off my bump, of baby showers and brunches with friends. Almost none of these things happened. On March 12th, 2020, my school decided to close a day before spring break, over growing concerns of the new coronavirus. By the end of March, the entire country was shut down, schools shuttered, restaurants closed, people stuck in their homes. COVID-19 was changing life as we knew it. I kept hoping it would be over quickly, that everyone would get their shit together and the country would be back to “normal.” Things only got worse. The country was reeling from tens of thousands of deaths. Of course there were many magical moments: feeling you kick for the first time, telling our friends and family about you, moving into our new apartment and setting up your room, the quiet moments Maurica and I spent snuggled up with you. As much as I wanted to uplight these moments, to have them carry me out of the gloom, I struggled. This pregnancy was not what I hoped for. I felt robbed of a “real” first pregnancy.
As you grew inside me with increasing ferocity, I tried to focus on you, on my growing belly, on our future together, yet I was often caught up dealing with the emotional burden of the world around me. As the pandemic raged on, there was never a sense that the end would come. The timeline for our return to “normalcy” only extended further and further. Many days left me sobbing, wishing things were different. I would so quickly switch from the pure joy of being pregnant, to feeling like I was sinking into a black hole. For the first few months of the pandemic, all our social interactions came through the phone or video. It was isolating. I felt that I didn’t have an outlet, a way to connect with other pregnant women. I missed my friends. Although I got to see people from a distance once things began opening up in June, it was still awkward and restricted. I missed hugs. I missed physical touch. I missed being out in the world without a care. I wished for those prenatal yoga classes and massages, for shopping for baby clothes in stores, for joyously celebrating with friends and coworkers. Every time I was out for a walk and I saw another pregnant person, I would want to run up to her and hug her, asking her to brunch. That obviously would have been creepy, so I didn’t do that. But that sense of loss, of missing a real human part of this pregnancy, followed me every day.
Alongside this ugly pandemic, other dire atrocities in our country have hung over my pregnancy. More beautiful black lives have continued to be lost at the hands of police, with little justice being served. This has caused Black Lives Matter protests across the country and beyond to grow in size and vigor. The summer of 2020 brought about much needed racial awareness- particularly among white liberals, myself included- but the worry of “what next” still lingers deeply in our communities, as we struggle to bring about real change. As the protests grew in strength, so did the courage of racists, eager to highlight BLM as a movement of destruction and violence. Every day I worry about bringing a multiracial child into this world. As an election year in an increasingly unstable time, the politics in this country have grown increasingly partisan and hostile. Our country is being run by a racist, sexist demagogue, who has given his supporters permission to be openly hateful. Our leader has called the virus a hoax and openly mocked those who take it seriously, turning something as simple as wearing a mask to save lives into a political statement. I sometimes felt like it’s all too much. All the divisiveness and antagonism have been hard to stomach, weighing heavy on this country. It often feels hopeless, as we wonder how our country would ever recover.
As I write this in these last few weeks of pregnancy, please know how much I love you. That I never for a minute regretted your existence. Rather, I feel disappointed in the world. I worry about the world you are being born into. As “easy” as my pregnancy has been, in terms of both my health and yours, the emotional stress has lingered like a stubborn cloud. Some days have been filled with beauty and sunlight, as I’ve basked in the miracle of your existence, others have been dark and lonely, filled with tears and foreboding. Some days I wished I wasn’t pregnant, that I could save both you and I from this world. But once the tears and the darkness clear, I remember how lucky I am, what a magnificent thing it is to have life inside me. We will figure out this world together, how to navigate it, how to rise above it. I’m glad you’re here Little One. I can’t wait to meet you.
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