Throughout my pregnancy, I was sick. I couldn’t go to work. I was bedridden, weak, and exhausted. Some days I could barely walk from my bed to the bathroom. Other days, even speaking felt like a chore. My body no longer felt like my own. I remember calling my GP, desperately asking if there was anything they could prescribe to help me eat, sleep, or simply feel a little stronger. I was surviving rather than living. As the weeks passed, the loneliness became unbearable. The person who helped create this baby had emotionally checked out. The few conversations we had often left me feeling worse than before. Instead of comfort, I received criticism. Instead of reassurance, I received distance. I spent countless nights staring at the ceiling, wondering how my life had changed so drastically. Was I really going to do this alone? I cried silently so nobody would hear me. Sometimes I cried because I was hurt. Other times I cried because I was scared. Most of the time, I didn’t even know why I was crying anymore. The tears simply came. The future felt uncertain. I worried about money. I worried about childbirth. I worried about whether I would be a good mother. I worried about whether my baby would be healthy. I worried about things that had not even happened yet. Fear had become my daily companion. But despite everything, there was one thing I never stopped doing. Every night, I placed my hand on my growing belly. When I felt those tiny movements, those little kicks, something inside me shifted. For a brief moment, all the pain, rejection, and loneliness faded into the background. There was a little human growing inside me. A little person who depended on me. A little person who didn’t care whether I was rich or poor, married or single, loved or rejected. That baby simply needed me. And somehow, that realization gave me enough strength to face another day. I wasn’t strong because I felt fearless. I was strong because I kept going despite being afraid. And although I didn’t know it at the time, those painful months were slowly preparing me for the greatest role of my life:

That night, I couldn’t sleep a wink. My mind kept replaying his words over and over again. How can a human being be so cruel? My heart filled with rage. More than angry, I was deeply hurt. The nerve to call me at that time of the night just to upset me. What? You don’t want the baby? Fine. But not wanting the whole community — including your ex — to know about the baby felt extreme. I kept asking myself painful questions. Am I too ugly for him to be ashamed of me?Don’t I belong?What is possibly wrong with me for me to deserve this treatment? I was furious. I cried so hard that night I couldn’t even think straight. For once, I wasn’t even thinking about the baby. My heart was too shattered. The next morning, I woke up very early determined to confront him. The moment I heard the front door open, I stepped out of my room with the face of someone who hadn’t slept all night. My eyes were swollen from crying, my chest heavy with anger. “Why would you say that to me?” I asked immediately. I began nagging him, demanding answers. Instead of calming the situation, he became defensive and started saying even more hurtful things. “I just don’t want people finding out about us,” he said coldly. “Especially my children’s mother.” “Oh, so you still love her?” I asked. He didn’t answer. “Then go back to her!” I shouted. “She knows I live here with you. She knows I sleep in your room anytime she drops the kids off. But now you don’t want her to know I’m pregnant? That’s ridiculous!” He shouted back, “Yes! I don’t want her to find out. What’s your problem?” That sentence hit me harder than anything else. I broke down instantly. At that moment, I felt like the biggest mistake I had ever made was trusting him and moving in with him. I called him evil. I told him he had destroyed me emotionally. He had spent years with that British woman. They travelled together, built a family together, and created memories together. He sponsored trips to Africa for her, her daughter, and their children. He bought her a car. The whole community knew them as husband and wife.

I lay there on the bed, staring at the ceiling while the midwives spoke softly in the background. Their voices sounded distant, almost like echoes underwater. My body was weak, my mind exhausted, and my spirit completely drained. I wanted to sit up and act normal, but I couldn’t even gather the strength to smile properly. One of them pulled a chair closer to the bed and asked gently, “How have you really been coping?” That question almost broke me. Because the truth was… I wasn’t coping at all. Nobody saw the nights I cried myself to sleep because I was hungry but couldn’t eat. Nobody saw how difficult it was just to walk to the bathroom without feeling dizzy. Nobody knew how many times I stared at my phone wanting to call someone for help, then putting it back down because I felt like a burden. Pregnancy was supposed to be beautiful. That’s what everyone shows online. Smiling mothers, glowing skin, cute baby clothes, happy countdowns. But my reality felt dark, lonely, and terrifying. As they spoke to me, I could tell they were concerned. One of them looked around my room quietly before asking if I had enough support at home. I paused before answering because I didn’t even know how to explain the emptiness I felt inside. Yes, there were people around me physically… but emotionally, I felt alone. I remember one of them holding my hand for a brief moment and saying, “You matter too, not just the baby.” That sentence stayed in my heart. For months, everyone had been asking about the baby.“How’s the baby?”“Have you bought baby clothes?”“Is it a boy or girl?” But nobody really asked me how I was doing. And honestly… I was falling apart silently. That home visit became a turning point for me. Not because everything suddenly became better, but because it was the first time I realised I could no longer pretend to be okay when I wasn’t. I needed help. I needed support. I needed someone to see me beyond the pregnancy. Deep down, I was scared. Scared of childbirth. Scared of becoming a mother. Scared that I wasn’t strong enough for what was coming. But even in that fear, a tiny part of me still held on. A tiny voice inside me whispered, “Just survive today.”