Carrying Two Lives

1st entry - Motherhood & Pregnancy in Wartime Series

November 4 2024

Being pregnant during a war feels like carrying two lives at once - the one growing inside me and the one that used to be mine. My life, my routines, my comforts - all feel distant now, like an echo, while this new life has a heartbeat that grows louder every day. I want to hold onto both, but they pull me in different directions: one forward, toward an unknown blankness, and one backward, toward what we’ve lost.

They say pregnacy’s meant to feel grounding. But every day, I wake up untethered, with no place to plant roots, in a bed that isn’t mine, in a home that isn’t mine. I drag my feet out, feel the coldness of the ground and force myself to go through the motions that feel monumental. Brush my teeth, wash my face, apply my creams, apply some makeup to look halfway decent. To look alive. The mirror mocks me, always delivering unwanted news. Your eyes are puffy. Your bags are darker. I try to avoid it.

I run my hand over my belly, feel his kicks - small, defiant reminders that he’s there, growing, real. I ask Google, Can negative emotions and too much crying affect your baby when pregnant? The answers make me feel worse. I wonder about where his roots will be, what kind of world I am bringing him into, what home will mean to him. Can I Google that too?

With my first pregnancy, I counted the weeks, read every update, knew exactly when he was the size of a lemon, a mango, a melon. I imagined him, his face, his tiny fingers, the sound of his first cry. Now, my imagination doesn’t stretch that far. I feel his kicks, but I don’t know how to dream for him yet. The future I pictured for him feels as distant as the home I left behind.

Instead of planning his nursery or choosing baby clothes, I find myself asking questions that have no answers. Will he know his country, his people, or will these be things I have to explain someday? Show him pictures of? This was our home, this was our street, this is what it felt to belong…

And yet, he grows, despite it all, reminding me that life pushes forward no matter what. He doesn’t know fear, doesn’t know sorrow. He just knows the warmth of my body and the sound of my heartbeat, as steady as I can keep it. I hold onto that. He’s stronger than the fear I feel, he’s a spark of hope in a time when hope is hard to come by.

They’ve taken so much from us. I don’t want them to take this too. So, here I am, bringing life into a life I don’t even know yet, fighting to protect his first days from the bitterness of my last ones there.

I want to give both my children everything I had, everything I’ve lost, and a little bit more. I want them to have a life that feels real and whole and safe.

But for now, all I can do is carry them through these days, each step and each heartbeat a promise that I’ll keep trying to find that home again - for all of us.