I still remember the moment with aching clarity. I was newly pregnant after a devastating miscarriage, and instead of joy, I was drowning in anxiety. It wasn’t the occasional worry that most expectant mothers feel. This was something else, something all-consuming. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. Panic attacks came in waves, crashing over me night after night. Every day was a battle, not just to make it through, but to survive the minutes, the seconds, as my body betrayed me with fear I couldn’t control.

Desperate for help, I confided in my doctor in New Mexico, hoping for reassurance, for guidance. Instead, she tilted her head, smiled, and said words that still make my chest tighten when I think about them:

“Some people just aren’t meant to be mothers. You’re not too far along for an abortion”

I don’t remember what I said in response. I only remember the sting of hot tears and the hollow feeling in my chest as I walked out of her office. It was as if she had confirmed every terrible, intrusive thought that had been swirling in my mind: what if I was broken? What if I wasn’t strong enough? What if I had prayed and yearned for this baby, only to find that I wasn’t capable of being the mother they needed? Worst of all, where did I go from here?

At the time, I had never even heard of antepartum anxiety, despite being a nurse. I knew about postpartum depression. I had read about the baby blues. But no one had ever told me that pregnancy itself could trigger a level of anxiety that made everyday life unbearable. What I needed in that moment wasn’t judgment. It was understanding. It was help.

Determined not to let my fear steal this pregnancy from me, I reached out to OBGYNs I had known from my nursing career, desperate for answers. I spent hours researching, pouring over medical journals, reading personal stories, looking for some kind of proof that I wasn’t alone. And I wasn’t. Pregnancy-induced anxiety and panic attacks are far more common than people realize, yet they’re rarely talked about.

Armed with my research, I went back to my doctor and begged (pleaded) for a pregnancy-safe medication to help me function. She hesitated but eventually agreed. And within three weeks, I felt like myself again. It was like surfacing from deep underwater, gulping in fresh air after what felt like an eternity of drowning.

That wasn’t my last pregnancy, nor was it my last battle with pregnancy-related anxiety. With each pregnancy, I had to start medication again, always feeling that same familiar wave of panic threaten to pull me under. But by then, I knew what was happening. I knew what I needed. I knew that it wasn’t me, it was my brain, my hormones, my body reacting in a way that needed medical support.

By the time I reached my final pregnancy, I thought maybe it would be better since I was older, wiser, and had two darling daughters. But it wasn’t. I would walk my house at night gasping for breath and feeling like I wanted this pregnancy to end. I moved through the days like a zombie, feeding my kids and robotically mothering, sobbing at nap time and in the shower. This baby that I loved more than myself and had begged God for was suddenly feeling more like an enemy. Honestly, I have tears in my eyes now as I write that, because our children are the best thing in our lives. I was so ashamed and embarrassed to have these feeIings. I didn’t tell my friends. I wanted to disapear. I felt no joy in anything. I told my husband that the panic felt like having a monster inside me that was trying to take over. But there was a light in the distance-I had moved and was under the care of a new OBGYN: one who listened, who understood. When I shared my story with tears in my eyes, she took my hand and said words that healed something deep inside me:

“There is nothing wrong with you.”

And there wasn’t. There never was. I once again started medication and went on to have a joyous and relatively easy final pregnancy.

If I could go back and sit with the woman I was in those early days of my second pregnancy, I would tell her what I wish someone had told me:

You are not alone. You are not broken. You are not failing. And you are meant to be a mother.

Pregnancy can be beautiful, but for some of us, it is also terrifying. Anxiety doesn’t mean you love your baby any less. It doesn’t mean you aren’t strong. It means you need help, and that help exists. If you’re struggling, please, don’t let anyone make you feel ashamed for reaching out. You deserve support. You deserve to enjoy your pregnancy. And most of all, you deserve to know that you’re not alone.