Tomorrow, Sona will be 13 weeks pregnant, which means she’ll have officially entered the 2nd trimester. Our baby, according to the What to Expect app, is the size of a plum. He’s nearing a full 3” long, he weighs about half of an ounce, and he’s starting to look more like an actual fetus and less like a gummy bear every single day. It’s a big milestone.
It’s also, as it happens, the time when most couples would finally feel comfortable sharing the news that they are expecting, as social norms dictate that couples (by which we really mean women) shouldn’t announce their pregnancies until the 1st trimester ends.
Sona and I played by those rules when we were pregnant with Finn, mostly. Of course, we told close friends and family members as soon as we found out, but we didn’t make our pregnancy “Facebook official” until week 13. (And, if you know me at all, you know I was absolutely busting at the seams by that point.)
(This is from our first babymoon, when no one knew that Sona was 2 months pregnant. We’d even written “babymoon” in the sand and edited it out.)
If Sona had her way, I think she might have done the same thing with baby #2, too. We certainly started the process of trying to conceive by keeping mum, and it wasn’t until we’d been actively trying for months that we both reached the point–me before her–that we didn’t mind whether people knew that we were trying to get pregnant. Most of the giddy excitement had worn off, by then, and it was strictly business. That’s not to say that the prospect of being pregnant again wasn’t exciting. It’s just that the process of getting pregnant had become purely transactional. “Let’s just get this done,” we often thought.
And so, slowly, we started telling people around us that we’d been trying–and still were. I started blogging about it, giving every excruciating detail.
For the most part, people seemed open to hearing our story. Our friends and family members’ reactions ranged from exuberantly supportive to not-so-secretly shocked and ashamed that we’d be sharing such personal information on the internet. Still, it was our story to tell–or not to–and we were comfortable fielding questions and concerns.
Our primary audience has always been, as we’ve said numerous times, other same-sex couples similarly trying to conceive, as we so desperately sought that kind of community during the process. (And honestly, for what it is worth, I’m not sure we could have gotten through the process without the online tribe of mostly lesbian couples who have supported us, rooted for us, answered questions for us, and commiserated with us.)
But I’m getting off track, here. What I mean to be talking about is that, while most were okay with our sharing our path to conception, we met a good bit of cynicism when we decided to immediately share that we were, in fact, pregnant. Like 2 hours after we found out. When Sona had been pregnant for approx. 18 days. Weeks before it’s seen as socially acceptable to start spreading the news.
I’ve spent the past 3 months thinking about whether or not we were right to share so soon. Ultimately, we both still feel comfortable with the decision, although there have been several times when Sona has said to me, “Maybe we’ve shared too much. Should we pull back? What if something happens?”
It’s that last question that has had me reeling for months. I’ve been turning that question over and over in my head, thinking about how greatly it informs our social expectations about what is–and what isn’t–acceptable for women to share.
What if something did happen? Does that mean that we, as women, should be isolated in our grief (as we’re already expected to carry so many of our burdens in isolation, already)? Does that mean that, by sharing the news of the pregnancy, we somehow ushered in the bad juju? (Some relatives actually said this to us.) Does that mean we were–you know–asking for it?
I think that, if we’re being honest with ourselves, we have to admit that the social response to those questions is, often, “YES.” Maybe that “yes” isn’t stated explicitly, but it is certainly implied.
This is the implication: You, as a woman, are completely responsible–and, thusly, at fault–for what happens to your fetus. If the pregnancy fails, you are somehow to blame. And that failure? It’s shameful. So shameful, in fact, that you shouldn’t tell anyone you are pregnant, just in case you have to later inform them that the pregnancy wasn’t successful. That you weren’t successful. You wouldn’t want anyone to know that, would you?
When we pressure women to wait until the 2nd trimester to share the news of their pregnancy, we are denying them their tribe. We are expecting them to celebrate–and then, sometimes, to suffer–in silence. We are deepening the stigma and the shame that accompanies not only fertility struggles, but also pregnancy losses.
We are asking women to navigate one of the most difficult journeys of their lives in isolation. And we are shaming them for daring not to.
Look, I come from a Jewish family. I’m no stranger to superstition. My grandmother has heart palpitations at the thought of our bringing baby items into the house before the baby is born.
I’ve also known many women who have suffered through failed pregnancies, including someone I really love, who experienced a miscarriage in the past year. The more open Sona and I have been with our own story, the more we’ve been on the receiving end of stories from others. I can’t tell you how many women–our own doctors, UPS workers, waitresses, among them–have come to us and shared their own struggles with fertility and miscarriage. They were hungry to have someone hear them–and to have their own experiences met without judgement.
I’m not saying that all women should be forced to disclose their pregnancies or fertility struggles, of course. What I am saying is that this is a absolutely, unequivocally a choice that women should be able to make on their own, and we should support them in their decision.
Don’t pressure women to keep silent–and don’t pressure them to tell their stories. Use the language. Don’t stigmatize the words. “Infertility” and “miscarriage” are not obscenities. Don’t perpetuate the notion that women’s worth is defined by their ability to–or not to–bare children.
Part of our–albeit lofty–aim with this blog has been to normalize these conversations. It’s perfectly okay if you choose to keep your experience to yourself. Of course it is. But don’t ever let anyone tell you that there is shame in sharing your story–or shame in however that story ends. And let’s be a little more thoughtful about whether we want to continue to normalize women’s silence.