I think it was quite naive of me to believe that my second pregnancy would be the same as my first one. I expected familiar rhythms, perhaps even the same ups and downs, but I quickly learned just how unpredictable this journey can be. With my first, I knew what to expect—or so I thought. The reality of this journey, however, has been humbling. The first trimester this time around has challenged me in ways I didn’t foresee, leaving me feeling a mix of emotions that range from gratitude to frustration, and even moments of doubt.
My first pregnancy was an absolute blessing—I had little to no symptoms and moved through those early weeks with ease. But the second time around, it hit me like a truck. The exhaustion was bone-deep, the nausea relentless, and there were days when even the simplest tasks felt impossible. I wasn’t prepared for how different it would feel, how much harder it could be, and how isolating it was to struggle through symptoms I hadn’t faced before—especially when everyone expected me to have it all figured out this time. It’s been a stark reminder that no two pregnancies are alike and that even when you think you know what to expect, pregnancy has a way of catching you off guard.
To be completely transparent, this pregnancy took me by surprise—not because it was unplanned, but because it happened so quickly. With our first, it took us months and months, so I expected a similar journey. But this time? It happened within the first month of trying, and I found myself struggling to wrap my head around it. It felt so sudden, almost like my mind hadn’t caught up with my body.
From the moment it began, I felt a deep awareness of what was happening in my body. I know it might sound strange, but I could sense the pregnancy even before I took a test. There was this odd, almost electric feeling during implantation—something I can’t fully explain but trusted completely. I’ve always been highly in tune with my body—maybe a little too in tune. Living with anxiety, an autoimmune condition, and a complicated relationship with food has made me hyperaware of every sensation, every shift. If something feels off, I notice it immediately, and my mind latches onto it, analyzing every detail. So from the very beginning, I was already attuned to every little change, every unfamiliar feeling, bracing myself for what was to come.
I was hit with a wave of symptoms right from the start that I never truly adjusted to. The worst, by far, was the relentless nausea and vomiting. It completely blindsided me. In my first pregnancy, I threw up once—just once. This time, though, it became a daily battle, sometimes up to six times a day on the worst days. It wasn’t just the physical toll that wore me down; it was the emotional and mental weight of it all. As someone who has struggled with disordered eating, the constant cycle of nausea, food aversions, and being unable to keep anything down felt like a cruel trigger. I found myself spiraling, questioning my body, and feeling disconnected from it in a way I hadn’t in such a long time. My body was rejecting nourishment, and no matter how much I tried to reason with myself, I couldn’t shake the overwhelming feeling of losing control.
What made it even harder was how isolating it felt. I searched for someone—anyone—openly talking about this, hoping to find reassurance that I wasn’t alone. But no one seemed to be saying the things I needed to hear. And so, for months, I struggled in silence, feeling trapped in a body that refused to cooperate. The nausea was incessant; from the moment I woke up to the second I closed my eyes at night, it never let up. I can’t count the number of times I lay curled up on the bathroom floor, completely drained, crying from exhaustion. Looking back, it breaks my heart to remember how unwell I felt, but the worst part—the part that still stings—was how it affected my son.
He doesn’t go to daycare; he’s with me all day, every day. And the number of times he stood next to me while my head was buried in the toilet, his tiny hands stroking my back, whispering, Mama, okay?—those moments shattered me. The mom guilt was unbearable. I should have been the one taking care of him, giving him my full attention, but instead, I was barely holding myself together. My energy was nonexistent. Most days, I could have easily collapsed by 2 p.m., but my toddler—who dropped his nap right after he turned one—had no intention of slowing down. I struggled to keep up, to engage, to be the mother he deserved, and the weight of that guilt sat heavy on my chest.
I felt pretty much the same way until week 24. That was when I finally noticed a shift—when the nausea began to ease, if only a little. It wasn’t gone, but for the first time in months, I could feel the difference. More on that later, when I share my second-trimester update. But if there was one thing that stayed with me, relentlessly, it was the exhaustion. The kind that went beyond physical tiredness, deep into my bones, making it hard to think, hard to function, hard to simply exist.
Because it wasn’t just the sickness—I was barely sleeping. On the rare nights I didn’t battle insomnia, I was trapped in vivid nightmares that felt all too real. Again and again, I dreamed of something going wrong. That something would happen to this baby. That I didn’t deserve this pregnancy. My mind convinced me that I was waiting for the moment it would all be taken from me, as if happiness wasn’t something I was meant to hold on to. I would wake up gasping, my heart racing, only to realize I hadn’t rested at all.
And then there was my son—two and a half at the time—who still didn’t sleep through the night. Now that he’s three, he still doesn’t. Most nights, I was up with him just as much as I was awake with my own racing thoughts. I felt like a walking shadow of myself. Like I was moving through the days in a body that had forgotten how to rest. I wasn’t just tired—I was depleted, drained of every ounce of energy I had left. And yet, I had no choice but to keep going.
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The first trimester is a time in pregnancy that not many people talk about, and yet it can often be one of the most challenging—especially if you’re someone who chooses to keep the news private in those early weeks. It can feel incredibly lonely when you’re carrying so much, physically and emotionally, in silence. There’s a lot unfolding beneath the surface—your body is changing, your mind is racing, and your heart is already stretching to make room for someone new. It’s overwhelming in a way that’s hard to describe unless you’ve felt it yourself.
If you’re in that place right now—navigating nausea, exhaustion, worry, or simply trying to make it through the day while also caring for another child—I just want you to know: you’re not alone. I see you. I feel you. And I know how deeply tiring and mentally heavy this time can be.
Please don’t forget: even if you’re not functioning at full capacity, even if the house is a mess and the meals aren’t what you hoped, even if you spend half the day lying on the bathroom floor—you are still showing up. You are still mothering. You are still enough.
And even on the days when it doesn’t feel like it—your love is still working quietly in the background, weaving itself into the tiny, ordinary moments that matter more than you think.
