The very specific guilt of having a baby you never wanted.

Something happens when you reach your early 30s. The conversation naturally shifts from nightclubs and hook ups to fertility. More specifically, the struggles of trying to be fertile. 

I remember one particular lunch a couple of years ago where sex patterns were debated – should it be the first 10 days after your period, every second day? Ovulation stick brands were analysed and discharge was a hot topic. One friend was in the process of starting IVF, another was bloated from hormone injections. 

At one point, my friend who suffered from endometritis broke down into tears. She worried it would never happen for her. I listened in. I knew very well the hope that hurts when it comes to trying for a baby but I’d had two babies, aged three and four, at this point. My husband and I had just had the conversation that our family was complete.

Four months later, one of the women at that lunch was pregnant. It was me.

From the moment that line appeared on the pregnancy test my body was awash with guilt. A week before, my cousin had miscarried and here I was sitting in a public bathroom with a baby growing inside me. A baby who I hadn’t, up until this point, seen in my future. There were lots of emotions; shock, anxiety and concern for how we’d cope financially, but nothing was as strong as the guilt. 

It wasn't until recently, when I watched a good friend go through a similar situation, that I was able to pinpoint this exact feeling. It’s a guilt that dresses itself in words like “we know we are so lucky” or “I know it’s a blessing in the long run”. It’s a guilt that stops you being truly honest to friends. It’s a guilt that makes you want to pretend everything is okay because you just got what everyone wants. 

It’s a guilt that prevents you from uttering four tiny but important words ‘I don’t want this’. Because that’s the thing, just because you’re married, you already have kids and are lucky enough to have an abundance of support, an unintended pregnancy can and will derail your life. 

My husband and I contemplated termination but for the above reasons, we knew we’d go through with the pregnancy. The reasons not to just felt too superficial. It’s easy to dismiss a surprise pregnancy as winning the fertility lottery, but several studies have confirmed there is an association between unplanned pregnancies and higher levels of depressive symptoms. It’s hard to be grateful when this isn’t something you emotionally, physically and mentally had planned. And it’s okay to say you aren’t completely happy.

In those early weeks of pregnancy, it was this guilt that made me feel I was unworthy. A little voice would tell me I would lose this baby I didn’t deserve. I didn't try hard enough to have earned them. I kept the baby a secret from my family and friends. My husband and I barely talked about it. We were unsure how to fit this new person into a life that wasn’t set up for her. And we grappled with the irony of having been gifted something our friends so desperately wanted.

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Much has been written about fertility privilege, a term brilliantly coined by writer and podcaster Elizabeth Day. In an article that divided the internet earlier this year, Day wrote: “We rightly talk about privilege in this era of social change – an era marked by Black Lives Matter and #MeToo – but hardly anyone acknowledges fertility privilege. 

"Those of us who have had complicated journeys to parenthood are only too aware of its existence. … I know how it feels to be the infertile one in a world of apparent abundance. I wouldn’t post about my glorious babies on social media in much the same way as I wouldn’t post about my expansive mansion or my fleet of Bentleys (not that I have any of those), because it’s thoughtless to those who don’t have these things.” 

I was exactly the type of woman Day was describing. At 30-weeks, I took to Instagram and posted a picture of my bump. All the people close to me knew I was pregnant, so the picture was performative, like most on social media. But I needed to post it to get excited, to move on from the guilt and get to a point where I was celebrating this baby and looking forward to our future together. The comments on the picture had the desired effect – I felt validated.

On the surface the circumstance I found myself in fell in the camp of having it all. But my “fertility privilege” led to the toughest time in my life. Despite knowing exactly what to do, I’d actually never felt lonelier. We had to completely adjust our lives.

I took a step back from a job that was important for my career trajectory. My body and health changed in ways I found harder to deal with this time around. We had to work a lot harder on our relationship. We fought and felt distant. And the impact on our finances, at times, was and still is crippling. For this child, there was no baby shower planned, no shopping for teeny, weeny clothes, only hand-me-downs, and no room to make a nursery.

Phrases like ‘fertility privilege’ often dwindle things down to the “have” and “have nots”. It’s the nuance in between where public discourse needs to go if we are ever going to free women from guilt.

And, now she’s been here for a while, of course I love my little unplanned baby with every inch of my body. My friends are nothing but supportive, but now a new kind of guilt lingers. When times get tough, I do find myself short tempered and screaming “I didn't even want this”. Then I look at her and wonder how I could even think those words, let alone say them. But there’s also freedom in saying them out loud... Guilt can only dissolve when you confront it.

My child is beautiful and the sunny type of baby who can attract a crowd. She smiles at strangers and waves on cue. But the most remarkable thing is that despite all these complicated feelings, she thinks I’m wonderful, and I her. 

Unplanned doesn’t mean unloved, fertility privilege doesn’t always equate to instant happiness and guilt isn’t just reserved for mums who can’t make it to pick up on time.

The author is known to Mamamia but has chosen to remain anonymous to protect their child's privacy.

Feature Image: Getty.