By Chidiogo Akunyili-Parr

There is an unwritten rule—possibly also written—that one does not announce the news of a pregnancy until well into the second trimester. But as I stand on the threshold of a new year, reflecting on what was, and even more importantly, what will be, I feel I must be straightforward. I am pregnant again, and my emotions are taking me back to past experiences.

I remember my first pregnancy like it was yesterday. The holiday season, three years ago; my husband and I had just settled into our lives in Toronto, and an ultrasound revealed that the baby had a fatal condition. My husband and I found out our little one was not going to survive and was likely to pass on “his” own. I would check the tissue whenever I wiped, looking for the bright red signal of a miscarriage. For weeks there was nothing—and then, there it was, there “he” was. Or so I thought. I was wrong on all counts—it was not a miscarriage, but mere spotting, and the lack of miscarriage meant that I had to actively terminate the pregnancy, which was a cruel twist to the nightmare I was living. (And, a genetic test later revealed, the baby was a girl, not a boy.) 

Did you know there are two forms of termination? I didn’t. And I’m not just talking about the pill option (at 13 weeks I was too far along for that). No, in addition to the pill and the more popular D&C, the doctor patiently explained two more options, both of which were unthinkable. And yet, I had to choose one.

From the moment I found out my child wasn’t going to live to the eventual termination, pain lurked around every corner, and each effort at healing was constantly waylaid by the ever-present triggers, such as the moment I asked my high-risk OBGYN about my options. He stopped me, holding his hands up. “Whoa, slow down, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. There’s a ‘Saint’ in front of our name,” he said, referring to the hospital’s name—St. Michael's. “Unfortunately,” he continued, “as long as there’s a heartbeat there’s nothing we can do.” 

This was not an abortion, it was healthcare! The child was sick, and wouldn’t survive! You told me so yourself. I wanted to scream all of this. Instead, I swallowed my guilt and frustration, and nodded. I wasn’t quite sure what I had expected from him, but I had at least hoped he could help me end the pregnancy instead of making me feel a new sense of shame for what had to be done.

When I got home, I called my friend Myriam, the only person who could still make sense when nothing else does. I started to cry on the phone, baring my soul and explaining that the most unexpected part had been the loss of my identity. “J’ai pas le moindre idée qui je suis,” I said, my tears falling freely. I have nothing left to give.

“Don’t worry about the future,” Myriam said. “It’s OK not to know what comes next,” she added. “You will no longer be the same. Embrace this change.”

During our conversation, I realized I was so desperate to go back to normal—either happily pregnant, or my familiar pre-pregnant self—but the truth is that it didn’t exist anymore. Through tears, I agreed to what Myriam said, satisfied with the permission to take it one day at a time. I didn’t have much in terms of positivity, but I had to trust that this would pass.

Following the eventual termination of the first pregnancy, the next years were spent navigating my new normal. But a second loss came a year later, this time no less painful, though I had steeled myself from celebrating too prematurely. There was no heartbeat, and a pill was all that was needed to say goodbye.

And then, after nearly three years of trying, I was well into my second trimester and starting to believe that this could be the one. I was right to hope. 

From the moment I found out my child wasn’t going to live to the eventual termination, pain lurked around every corner, and each effort at healing was constantly waylaid by the ever-present triggers.

This time last year, I had a newborn in my arms and a new book fresh off the press. But now my book is no longer so new, and my baby from some angles looks like a teenager.

There are obvious struggles to motherhood, like never getting a full night's sleep, and the lack of personal time. This, I could handle. But there were more subtle challenges I felt less prepared for, like the hundreds (or what felt like thousands) of hours spent nursing; the physical depletion; the extreme emotional demands. Indeed, these were difficult, but they also came as something of a relief compared to what I’d already been through.

In moments of pure exasperation, I wondered how my mother was able to have had six of us. Not unusual for a Nigerian woman of her generation. But the fact that she managed this, getting her PhD, and full-fledged career, was nothing short of marvelous.

She wasn’t alone, as millions of women and men across the world are constantly navigating this life-altering responsibility, and managing to hold a job, and maintaining a life. Perhaps the key word is “navigating.” Everyone is pedaling furiously under calm waters.

Occasionally, I’d find myself longing for life to go back to normal, to the familiar, to the known—a life before my child—but that didn’t exist anymore. A shift had happened: This girl was here to stay, and thank goodness for that. 

Now, like Myiram said, the invitation was to work towards embracing this change, instead of lamenting the parts that were not idyllic. In other words, focus on what I can do: bite the bullet and find help, make a move to a location with cheaper childcare so that I might be able to afford that help, and always cultivate a sense of community.

As I begin another chapter, I know I’ll never be the same again. I have since learned to appreciate this. Although some change will bring pain, grief, and uncertainty, there will also be joy and celebration. Whatever happened in the last twelve months, and whatever we intend for the next twelve, life always has a way of surprising us. We just need to adapt and trust that we’ll always find our way.

With any luck, this time next year, we’ll look back and feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude, as I do now.

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Chidiogo Akunyili-Parr is a Nigerian Canadian author, speaker, and consultant with a passion for human development and connection. She is the founder of She ROARs, an organization committed to coaching women of color around the world to connect to their intuition and purpose. Chidiogo has lived and worked across four continents and speaks seven languages, including Mandarin, German, Spanish, and French. She led the growth and impact of the Global Shapers Community across Africa and the Middle East. Her first book is I Am Because We Are: An African Mother's Fight for the Soul of a Nation. Follow her on Instagram here.