When I reached six months, people looked at me as if I was about to give birth right there in the grocery aisle, surrounded by apples and canned soup. I couldn’t go anywhere without someone asking, “Is it any day now?” followed by an awkward laugh that made us both feel uneasy. I would force a smile and reply, “Actually, I still have a few months to go,” and then watch their expressions change as if I had just revealed I was carrying a small planet.
I knew I was big, but the stares, whispers, and well-meaning questions started to feel less like genuine interest and more like judgment. It seemed like everyone thought I was hiding twins, lying about my due date, or that I spent every night indulging in ice cream straight from the tub.
Even Aunt Lela, who I care for a lot, pulled me aside at a family barbecue and quietly asked, “Honey, are you sure there’s only one in there?”
Yes, Aunt Lela. Just one. I had seen my little guy on the ultrasound—my jellybean, kicking around like he had bills to pay. My doctor assured me it was just extra fluid, nothing to worry about. “Big but healthy,” she said to comfort me. But still, I could feel the stares.
Then things took a weird turn.
After one prenatal yoga class, a woman named Trina kept looking at my belly as if it might start talking any moment. When the class was over, she approached me in the parking lot and said, “You should get checked again. My friend looked like you, and…” She hesitated. “Just… please do it.”
That night, I couldn’t get her words out of my mind. They kept swirling around like a loose marble. The next morning, I called my doctor to see if they had any last-minute openings. They managed to fit me in two days later.
I wish I could say that visit calmed me. But something happened during that scan I didn’t see coming.
Dr. Mahmoud, my regular OB, started the ultrasound with his usual warmth—asking about cravings, teasing me about waddling. But then he got quiet. Really quiet.
He moved the wand slowly, tilted the monitor, then leaned back and said, “Hold on. I want a second opinion.”
My stomach dropped. “Is something wrong?”
His smile was meant to comfort me. “Probably not. I just want to make sure everything is clear.”
Ten minutes later, another doctor named Dr. Klara entered the room. She seemed calm and focused. Both doctors looked at the screen, speaking quietly in that way doctors do when they want to keep you calm but also need to be honest.
Finally, Dr. Mahmoud faced me. “So… this is a bit unusual. You’re still expecting one baby, but we’ve found a mass. It’s likely a fibroid, which is probably harmless. However, it’s making your uterus stretch more than usual.”
“A mass?” I echoed, feeling my throat tighten.
“It’s not rare,” he said softly. “It’s a fibroid. Non-cancerous. But it’s quite large. This, along with the extra amniotic fluid, explains why your belly is bigger than expected.”
I nodded, pretending to understand. I left with a referral to a specialist and a wrinkled printout in my hand, then sat in the car for twenty minutes, trying to hold back my tears.
A few days later, the doctor confirmed it—there was one large fibroid positioned awkwardly near the placenta. While it wasn’t directly harming the baby, it made monitoring more challenging. It blocked some views and reduced blood flow on one side. They decided to keep a close eye on things with weekly ultrasounds, stress tests, and fluid checks.
From that moment, my pregnancy became more than just “big.” It turned into something complicated, medical, and closely monitored.
I stopped attending yoga classes and avoided the grocery store. I didn’t want to deal with the stares or the questions. I just wanted to get through each day without feeling like I was on display.
Then, one night, about seven weeks before my due date, I felt a deep cramp. It wasn’t sharp or dramatic—just constant. I tried everything to ease it: drinking water, moving around, lying on my left side. Nothing helped.
By midnight, I found myself in the hospital. I was in preterm labor.
After that, everything became a blur—machines beeping, nurses rushing around, and my mom arriving in mismatched shoes. They managed to stop the labor but warned me that next time, it might not be so easy.
For the next few weeks, I stayed mostly lying down. Couch, bed, repeat. I kept frozen peas on my back and watched “comfort” TV on repeat.
Then, on a quiet, rainy Tuesday morning, he finally arrived.
Niko.
Five pounds, eleven ounces. A loud, strong cry. A tuft of dark hair. They had to perform a C-section because of where the fibroid was located, and the recovery was tough. But when I held him… nothing else mattered.
As for the fibroid? It disappeared on its own. No surgery needed. No fuss. Just gone.
However, what lingered with me—much longer than the pain or the scar—was the feeling of being judged. It seemed like strangers, friends, and even family thought they knew something I didn’t. They acted like I wasn’t “doing pregnancy right.” It felt like my body was open for everyone to comment on.
If you ever see a pregnant woman with a belly that’s larger than expected, try something different—just don’t say anything. Or if you really want to say something, make it nice. Maybe ask how she’s feeling. Or even better, just smile and move on.
And if you’re the one feeling stretched in every way—remember this: you are not alone. You don’t have to explain yourself to anyone. But you should trust your instincts. If something feels off, ask questions. Be persistent. Follow what your gut tells you.
You know your body better than anyone else does.
Thanks for reading. If this story resonates with you or reminds you of someone you care about, please share it. You never know who might be feeling overlooked, unheard, or overwhelmed—and who might need to be reminded that their story is important too.