'I had my first child at 22 and my third at 41. This same question was on everyone's lips both times.'

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At 22, I was the first of my peers to become a parent. I was ready, and the parenting gig felt natural from the get-go.

So why did I feel so out of place in a room full of mums? It was as though I'd snuck into a club I wasn't on the guest list for.

In the mothers' group — surrounded mostly by women a decade older — I was jealous of their easy conversations and ready-made village. It felt like walking into a room of long-term friends, and I was the intruder.

Watch: A discussion about how pregnancy and birth physically change a woman's brain and body. Post continues after video.

A sense of having to "prove" myself always sat heavy.

It wasn't that I questioned my parenting. And it wasn't that they did either. It was that I felt they did.

When friends and perfect strangers alike ask if your pregnancy is an accident, it plants a seed. Did people think I was unequipped, ill-prepared or worse? And if that was the case, who would want me in their village?

"Was it an accident?" implied I'd made a mistake. And that left me wondering:

Had I failed to adhere to society's gold standards of motherhood?

Had I mucked up the timing or walked the wrong path?

The word 'accident' makes me think of my less-than-elegant tendency to trip on curbs, or my annoying habit of bumping into people because I still can't walk in a straight line. Accident was the time I reversed out of my driveway and into my neighbour's parked beamer.

Accident was not pacifiers and rompers and that cosy fresh baby smell.

"Was it an accident?" felt awkward to navigate. 

"Was it planned?" didn't feel much better. 

While part of me rationally knew people were just genuinely surprised and curious because I was younger, my gut still twisted with defensiveness.

It wasn't my answer that mattered — it was the asking that made my heart sink.

But what shocked me was that I didn't field this question as often at 22 as I did 19 years later.

At 41, already six years qualified for the geriatric pregnancy club, the curiosity surrounding my pregnancy only grew louder.

"Was it an accident?"

"Surely you didn't plan to start again?"

I'll admit, I was surprised and ill-prepared this time around. I had almost expected the dreaded question at 22. But surely now, ripe in my 40s, I was finally seen as experienced, stable and equipped to care for a small human – not the accident-prone, stumbling on the sidewalk, clumsy girl of my early 20s. 

I was a mum of two (almost) adults and a business owner. I'd traded tequila for tea decades ago, and I felt excited on the weekends if the weather was fine – time to get the clothes washed and dried.  

I had my life together... right? 

What's more, working as a therapist, I spent a big chunk of my days supporting other mums to navigate the joys and chaos of parenthood.

I had my life together (as much as we ever can). So why wasn't it my turn to exude confidence? Where was my village of Lorna Jane-clad mums and coffee dates? And why had that dreaded question popped up like a broken record?

Thankfully, this time around, some of the worry had faded, and my gut didn't twist. Getting older doesn't make you immune to fear of judgement — but sometimes the wisdom of experience teaches you to care a little less.

When it came to feeling, I needed to prove myself as a parent. I no longer carried that weight.

I knew I could do this, and I knew that the only person I needed to prove that to was the little human I was bringing into the world.

I also knew there was no gold standard for when motherhood "should" happen. (Honestly, let's just drop all the "shoulds" we constantly impose on ourselves)

That's not to say I was always floating along on herbal tea and mindful breathing. The feeling of not quite fitting in persisted. I still sat in story time singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, quietly appraising the age of the other mums and wondering who might be open to an age-gap friendship. 

I still carried the belief I couldn't find my village with the ease that others did. And I still felt different. After all, we're only human. Sometimes, feeling like we fit can be a lifelong mishmash of trying to understand our identity and find our place. At 42, I hadn't mastered it, but I was a little gentler with myself.

What I did know this time, was that the question didn't matter.  

Neither did the answer.

It was mine to share.

Or not.

Maybe what people meant to ask was: 

"Are you feeling ready for this huge life change?" or "What brought you to this moment?"

Curiosity wasn't the problem. The questions they asked just needed a slight tweak.

At the end of the day – being a younger mum, older mum, first-time parent or doing it all over again 19 years later – it didn't matter.  

None of it was an accident. It all happened right when it needed to. And how and when the journey found me was exactly the right way.

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Feature image: Supplied.