My pregnancy was a surprise and we even considered abortion. After we decided to keep it, my boyfriend told me he wanted me to be a stay-at-home mom. He said it was better for the baby.
I burst out laughing. I won’t spend my days doing laundry and cooking meals. I talked to a friend about this, and she told me I was being kind of harsh.
“Some women actually like staying at home with their babies,” she said gently. “It’s not a prison sentence. It’s a choice—just like working is.”
I rolled my eyes at first.
I had just gotten a promotion at work, and I loved what I did. I was good at it too. The idea of giving that up to wipe spit-up and fold baby onesies felt like a step backward.
My boyfriend, Tyler, had always been more traditional than me, but it hadn’t bothered me much until now. We argued a few times about it. He kept saying, “This is a short season.
The baby needs you more than your job does.”
I didn’t want to admit that part of me was scared. Scared I’d lose my identity. Scared I’d get left behind while everyone else moved forward.
I’d seen it happen to other women—smart, vibrant women—who became shadows of themselves after having kids. But something changed the day I went in for my second trimester ultrasound. I was lying there, belly slick with gel, watching the screen when the tech said, “Looks like you’ve got a little girl.”
A girl.
Something about hearing that pierced through my doubts. I imagined her tiny hands. Her laugh.
The way she’d look up to me without even knowing why. When we got home, I told Tyler I’d think about the stay-at-home thing. He looked hopeful, and it made me feel guilty.
I wasn’t doing this for him. I was doing it for her. Still, I made it clear: “If I stay home, it’s my choice.
Not because I’m a woman, or because you expect me to.”
He nodded, and to his credit, he never pushed again after that. I ended up taking maternity leave early. The pregnancy was rough—I was tired all the time, constantly nauseated, and honestly, a little depressed.
I hated feeling useless. But when our daughter was born, everything slowed down. We named her Sadie.
The moment they placed her on my chest, all my plans, my arguments, my pride—they scattered. I cried like I hadn’t cried in years. I didn’t think about spreadsheets or deadlines.
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