Built for This, Even If I Didn’t Know It Yet — Part 1

I knew something was off the moment I couldn’t keep anything down. The smell of chicken? Instant vomit. Walking from one room to the other? Vomit. Even the scent of soap made me gag. Watermelon was the only thing I could eat without needing to hover over a toilet. I clung to that fruit like it was the last meal on Earth. Sweet, juicy, cold — it felt like the only kindness my body could process.

Eventually, I had to take FMLA. My body wasn’t functioning like it was growing life; it was breaking down. Instead of gaining weight like most glowing, blossoming mothers, I was shrinking. Fast. And I didn’t have much to lose to begin with.

The doctor said it was “normal.” “The weight will come,” she assured us. I nodded, clinging to her words like gospel, but I saw the way he looked at me. Like I was doing something wrong. Like I wasn’t feeding his child enough. Like my body was failing a mission he hadn’t even begun to understand.

By the time the nausea faded and I stumbled out of the fog of that cursed first trimester, I was finally able to return to work and start stacking my coins for what was coming. A baby. A family. A brand-new life. I hadn’t planned for any of this, but I pivoted fast. I made up my mind: I was going to be ready. I was going to be ready for a baby I didn’t plan but was already in love with. That baby was going to have love, stability, safety — all of it. Even if I had to build it alone.

And if I’m honest, I felt like I would be doing it alone. There wasn’t a dramatic breakup. No shouting match or slammed doors. Just a quiet, growing knowing. I wasn’t in love with him. I had never been. But I did love him. Or maybe the version of him I believed in — the dream I wanted us both to grow into. Two young, Black professionals with degrees, drive, and a future we could hand our child like a legacy. 

But I had this… tug in my spirit. A whisper that never got loud but never quite left either. I just knew I had to prepare to raise this child alone. I didn’t want to be a single mom. But I wasn’t afraid to be one if I had to. 

I knew he wasn’t my forever. I had tried, though. I tried so hard. I invested in us. Paid the rent. Covered our utilities. Bought him a car — safe, reliable — because I didn’t have a license yet and we’d need a way to get our baby to appointments, daycare, wherever. I even bought his school books. He was still in school, interning for a senator — unpaid. I wanted him to finish. I had my degree; it only made sense that I’d hold us down so he could finish his.

But the whisper was there. That soft tug in my gut that said Don’t build this house too tall. You might be the only one holding up the walls.

Still, I kept preparing.

I bought onesies in gender-neutral tones — earthy greens, golden yellows, soft whites. I didn’t know if I was having a boy or girl yet. But I knew I was having a future. My mom told me to slow down, to wait for the baby shower. Baby shower? Hadn’t even crossed my mind. I was in survival and preparation mode.

He came to most appointments. When we found out it was a boy, his face lit up. But he made one thing clear: “No junior.” We wrestled with names for weeks. We thought we had time.

But while we were battling with names, I still was preparing myself for solo motherhood. I hired a driving instructor, and my grandma let me practice in her car—as long as I ran her errands and took her grocery shopping. It was a good deal. Her life was routine and predictable, and I easily managed this with my schedule.

Oh, that car I bought him? Useless. He didn’t like it. Said it wasn’t “his style.” What he wanted was a Crown Vic — the kind that screamed drug dealer chic. Instead, I got something safe and reliable. But one day, he got a flat tire and just… left the car. Said he didn’t have a spare, didn’t call for help. Just ditched it on the side of the road. Who does that?

So I made a decision.

No more waiting. No more “we.” I was done hoping for true partnership. I was building alone. I was making the necessary moves for my son and I.

So I rushed to get my license, pregnant belly and all. My grandma’s car quickly became my “temporary” car as long as I continued to help her make runs. A fair deal. Because relying on him? Not an option.

He was charming, sure. Pretty eyes. Smooth words. Always had something powerful to say about Black liberation and community. But behind the talk, there was no real plan. No discipline. No grind. And the deeper I got into my pregnancy, the more I saw behind the mask.

But then — my body started shifting again.

Swelling. Feet so puffy I couldn’t fit shoes. I brought a chair into the shower because standing for more than five minutes was unbearable. But I didn’t stop working. I didn’t slow down. I just dealt with the pain and kept going.

Then came the appointment that flipped everything.

The doctor looked at my swollen feet and raised an eyebrow. “How are you feeling?” she asked gently.

“I’m fine,” I said. Reflex.

“How long have you been swollen like this?”

I shrugged. “A little while, I guess.”

She frowned. “Why didn’t you come in sooner?”

“I thought it was normal. My mom was swollen with me and my brother.”

She shook her head. “No, THIS isn’t normal. We’re admitting you today.”

I blinked. “Wait, what?”

Things escalated fast. They ran every test imaginable. Hooked me up to machines. Monitored my contractions and blood pressure constantly. Nurses rotated in and out like clockwork. The phrase “how are you doing?” started to sound like a code for we’re worried.

Finally, the doctor came in and said it straight: “Your baby’s fine. But you are not. You have preeclampsia. And other complications. We have to get the baby out.”

I froze.

I didn’t want a C-section. I wanted to birth my child. I wanted the normal story. The one where you push, cry, scream, then hold your baby close to your chest and cry some more.

Instead, I projectile vomited on the hospital floor.

They told me they need to perform an emergency C-section. I’d be put to sleep. No one allowed in the room. No holding hands. No words of comfort. Just me, unconscious, while they cut my body open and hoped for the best.

My child’s father panicked. He started calling everyone — my mom, my dad, his mom. The waiting room filled up fast. Fear was thick in the air.

Everything blurred. They prepped for emergency surgery. General anesthesia. Counting down backwards, fading lights, masks, then sleep. 

I was unconscious for the birth of my first child.

I didn’t hear his first cry. I wasn’t the first to see him. To hold him. I almost didn’t make it. Blood loss. Transfusion talks. Complications. My family didn’t tell me the whole truth until months later. 

I didn’t meet my son for days.

Drugged up, hazy, floating in and out of sleep.

He was in the NICU. I was in recovery. I couldn’t walk. Couldn’t move. I had to earn my way to him — sit up, walk, use the bathroom on my own. Each task a mountain. But I climbed anyway. Because he was alone. Surrounded by strangers and machines. Beeping monitors. Wires taped to his fragile body. And I wasn’t there. The thought broke me.

So I pushed through the pain. I got myself upright. I did what I had to do so I could get to him.

The first time I held him, I remember thinking I should be overwhelmed with joy. But I felt nothing at first. Not because I didn’t love him — but because the drugs still had a hold on me. My body had been through hell, and my mind was still climbing its way out.

I didn’t feel like a new mom.

I felt like someone who had crossed an invisible threshold — into a version of life no one had fully prepared me for.

I didn’t know what came next.

But I knew I’d meet it head-on.