The ultimate invitation to surrender
I change my mind daily on how I feel about my pregnancy journey. What I do know is that our physicality and our emotional world are never separate.
I change my mind daily on how I feel about my pregnancy journey. I’d use the same word to describe it in what it’s like running a small business. A rollercoaster. And it has felt a lot more like a rickety luna-park ride than a well-oiled joy ride at Movie World.
I am so happy to be pregnant. My baby girl is thriving and doing everything she needs to do in there. At 28 weeks, her kicks are so strong now that I can feel her from both sides of my belly at once. It’s so comforting reaching third trimester. If I were to go into early labour, premature survival is highly likely. That is a terrifying path no one wishes for, but when you spend the majority of the pregnancy counting the days until your 13 and 20 week scans, reaching this milestone feels like finally being able to uncross your fingers.
I’ve written so many versions of this substack piece. Every time I sit down to write it, I find more layers and directions I could go. What I am realising is that this might be just one of the most intense moments of transition and seasons of change I’ve ever experienced. My body, my brain, my identity, my relationships, my values, my sense of purpose — all of it feels different, confusing and uncharted.
Soooooo, have you heard of Matrescence?
Matrescence is the developmental transition of becoming a mother, spanning preconception to 2-3 years postpartum. The word is borrowed intentionally from adolescence, because like adolescence, it is a complete reorganisation of self. The way I think about my work, my worth, and my place in the world has never felt more uncertain and confronting.
I find myself waking at 3am wondering what will become of the business I’ve spent years pouring myself into, carrying the guilt of wanting to be wholeheartedly present for my baby while also wanting to continue to show up like I always have for the work I love in Rosy Movement with every fibre of my being.
The fragility
I’ve spoken before about how much of my identity is wrapped up in my body’s ability to do. To move. To show up. To be productive.
It’s only been through my own maturation as an adult — and over a decade of walking alongside clients through pain, injury, and challenging life periods — that I’ve truly understood how fragile it is to tie your self-worth to physical output.
Mum always said I had a lot of energy as a kid. Dance classes, swimming lessons, saxophone practice, play dates — on repeat. My schedule has always been full. Always moving. My parents also rarely let me stay home from school. The message was you get up, you show up, and you decide how you feel about it later. I carried that into adulthood and apply it to almost everything.
I’ve also never thought of myself as particularly special. Competitive private schools and a dance career cemented the belief that I was mediocre. But I was always applauded for my work ethic. I learnt that if I couldn’t be the most magnetic or talented person in the room, I could at least be the most driven and committed.
My drive is one of my favourite things about myself. But it is also the catalyst for my most debilitating exhaustion. Finding my off switch is like finding a needle in a haystack.
So when my body started to struggle with the physical and mental toll of carrying a growing human, I was confronted with everything I’d ever believed about what my body is supposed to be able to do and achieve — and the story that my worth was contingent on it.
I would never say this to a client
First trimester was pure survival. Vegemite Saladas and Hydralyte icy poles were all I could comfortably stomach. Work, to the couch, and back again. Hiding it from clients. Terrorised by constipation. Complaining to my partner and my mum daily. It began to lift around 13 weeks, and I honestly don’t know how women carry that nausea the whole way through.
Then came second trimester. The time when everyone tells you you’ll feel the best you’ve ever felt. I was so ready for that. Ready to tell people, get back to work, step back into myself and my body with this magical baby in my belly and motherhood on the horizon.
My energy did improve. But the best I’ve ever felt? Absolutely not. Sleep was still disrupted. I was mentally overwhelmed by the enormity of the situation of balancing business and baby. Still, I tried to get back into my usual routine — completely gassed most of the time, but at least I could eat a full meal and didn’t need to lie down every five seconds.
Then bang on 20 weeks, I hurt my back. The classic bend-down-and-never-quite-come-back-up. While I was horizontal for the week recovering, a cold came through on my birthday that coughed my pelvic floor into oblivion. My back recovered relatively quickly, thankfully. But very debilitating and unpredictable pelvic girdle pain set in, and with it, a cascade of difficult emotions and identity struggles that would define the rest of my second trimester.
Pelvic girdle pain affects roughly 20-40% of pregnant women, with many experiencing early onset from as little as 16 weeks. I had early signs from around then. Learning that statistic did little to loosen the shame of being included in that number.
It’s been a real challenge not to sink into self-criticism. Not to feel like my body is failing me — or that I have failed it. With all the preparation and support I sought in preconception, and the privilege of rarely falling ill or injured, my first instinct is still to look for what I did — or am doing — wrong. I’m not injured. I’m not ill. I’m stressed but this is a natural, human process. I’m doing my pelvic floor physio homework. Modifying exercises and physical activity as a whole. Prioritising rest and relaxation practices. Wearing the girdle belt and compression tights. And it still bloody hurts.
Even with my women’s health physio reassuring me that this is simply the reality of the hormonal, postural, and pelvic floor changes of pregnancy, (while also flagging my stress levels too) a cruel inner voice kept telling me — your body should have been stronger than this.
I rationally know that none of what I’m experiencing is my fault. But that hasn’t protected me from the shame of it. And with that shame has come guilt — because I am so excited and so grateful to be pregnant.
This pregnancy has held up yet another mirror to an uncomfortable truth I keep meeting in myself. How much of my self-worth I’ve outsourced to being pain-free, performative, and relentlessly productive.
I’ve always known my expectations of myself can often be unrealistic and a detriment to my mental health. But what feels important right now is naming this for exactly what it is. An ableist standard. One I would never place on a client. One I actively speak against in my work, and genuinely wouldn’t want anyone to hold themselves to.
And yet, here I am. Struggling to offer myself even a fraction of the compassion I love to give so freely to others.
Still learning
I’m learning to accept that physical pain and discomfort are part of this pregnancy experience. That these sensations don’t mean I’m broken. That I’m not in danger, nor is my baby. That I’m doing everything I possibly can to take care of myself — and that receiving help and support is not weakness. This has been the ultimate invitation to surrender.
But knowing something intellectually and trusting it when you’re in pain and working through uncharted territory are two completely different things. I’m not exempt from the struggle just because I understand the theory.
Right now, I’m only capable of noticing what’s happening day to day, rather than fully comprehending all that’s unfolding beneath the surface and ahead of me. It feels like standing on a massive precipice. But for now, I just want to get this out before I change my mind again.
What I do know is that our physicality and our emotional world are never separate. They move together, influence each other, pull each other under and lift each other back up. I’ve felt that in my own body these past months more than I ever have before.
I don’t have a neat resolution to offer you here.
But I hope that somewhere in this, you feel a little less alone in your own messy middle — and find it in yourself to extend the same compassion you’d offer anyone else.
