Felt pressured to give her daughter a sibling. Here, she reveals the isolating taboo of wishing she wasn’t now six months pregnant

Helena Ashon*

one of the few comforts I had when I was newly pregnant with my second child was that I might miscarry. I know how that will horrify those who have suffered one, or those who are pregnant and for whom it’s their worst nightmare, or those infertile couples who desperately want a baby. But I was – still am – so utterly miserable at the realisation that I was pregnant when I truly didn’t want to be that I found myself wishing for something so dark that I haven’t been able to admit it to anyone.

The worst of it was that this wasn’t an accident – but I felt tricked nonetheless. I had been ambivalent about children in my teens, looking at my mother, who seemed deeply unfulfilled by a life dedicated solely to raising three kids. Then, in my twenties, I allowed myself the possibility of a child and a career, and in my early thirties I was lucky to conceive easily. Having my daughter was everything they said it would be: I can’t imagine my life without her and her gorgeous little face, her trusting heart and funny expressions.

But it was also awful. My sense of self shattered when she was born. I was anxiously obsessed with my new baby and simultaneously deeply bored by what I had become and what I now thought about. I hated talking to the new mummy friends because it would descend into discussions around sleep schedules, but I felt I had nothing interesting to say to my old ones. At one point, I admitted to my husband that I ‘couldn’t see the point of life’. Clearly, I was suffering from some kind of postnatal mental anxiety, if not depression.

Gradually, though, I rediscovered myself, manoeuvring my job, family, relationship and friendships into a precarious balance. But I was certain that one was enough; I couldn’t do that again. Not the birth –

I had a relatively good experience – but the dividing of myself, so that I love my husband fully, be a good friend and value myself, while at the same time raising a human felt so colossal with one. Unimaginable with two. I openly said that getting pregnant again would be The Worst Thing Ever and donated all the baby clothes and equipment the minute my daughter grew out of them.

I’m not alone in choosing to have one child. Figures from the Office for National Statistics show that one-child families are growing; within the next decade, in fact, half of all families will only have one child. But the wave of expectation hasn’t caught up. For the three years since my daughter was born, I have had people asking me when I was going to have another, even while I was in the dark trenches of early motherhood. Strangers have told me that it’s better for the child to have a sibling; that only children are forced to grow up too fast; that they’re weird. I’ve known that, deep down, my wonderfully kind husband, who has never ever pressured me, would love a second. I’ve watched friends seamlessly have new babies, magnificently adapting their stride and carrying on.

So I faltered. Could not having a second child – as I hit my mid-thirties, the point where we’re constantly told our fertility rates drop off a cliff – be something I lived to regret? The weight of expectation wore me down. I convinced myself that if I wasn’t ready right now, the magic of pregnancy hormones would prepare me. But as I watched the little lines appear on the test I instantly knew I’d made the wrong call. Having a baby when I had all the ingredients of a happy and stable home and loving family unit felt for me like one of the only irreversible decisions I could think of. You can split up with partners, sell or move out of houses, switch jobs. But a baby? I’m passionately pro-choice, and this experience has made me even more so, but for me, an abortion didn’t feel like an option I could take. I had willingly invoked her spirit, that was my call.

At 15 weeks, I told my family, but found it hard to deal with their joy. ‘You must be so excited,’ they all told me, in-between shrieks. I was grateful that lockdown meant it was all over Zoom and no one could hug me. At 16 weeks I made myself text a friend I knew had been trying for her second for a while, who couldn’t bear to speak to me during my last pregnancy after she had just miscarried. ‘So, The Worst Thing has happened,’ she replied. I wanted to tell her, ‘Yes, it has, I need to talk to you about it.’ But I couldn’t. My worst thing is her best hope. It makes me feel even more wretched.

Now I’m six months pregnant and, out of lockdown, there’s no hiding it. And it’s all anyone can ask me about. ‘How are you feeling?’ and ‘Not long nowéõ I feel that as I expand, I’m already disappearing. I don’t fit into any box that I see around me: neither the happily child-free nor the maternal ‘more the merrier’ variety. But that is part of the problem. Women are expected – we expect ourselves – to fit into certain boxes, and when we don’t it is jarring.

I’ve forced myself to push through the awkwardness to tell close friends what I’m going through, because I passionately believe my feelings are valid, even if they feel taboo. I know only too well how the glossy images of perfect motherhood can destroy you because you feel you don’t stack up. Dr Emma Svanberg, a psychologist specialising in pregnancy and parenting mental health, agrees. ‘If we could banish these unhelpful narratives around mothering and admit that mothering is a complex experience with lots of strong emotions attached to it, then we might feel less ashamed,’ she says.

There is, as with most things, a more nuanced discussion to have. One that I hope we can start now.