Disclaimer: Before I begin, this is just my experience — and every pregnancy is uniquely valid. If yours looks or feels different from mine, that’s okay. Neither is better or worse. Pregnancy is so deeply personal, and each experience deserves to be honored. That’s what I’m doing here: honoring mine.
When we talk about grief in relation to pregnancy, it’s often associated with tragedy or loss. But that’s not the type of grief I’m talking about.
I’m talking about the quieter kind. The grief that sits alongside joy. The kind that arrives when a new beginning also means saying goodbye to something deeply meaningful. I rarely hear anyone speak about it, but it marked a huge part of my early pregnancy — so I’m going to.
Don’t get me wrong — I’m incredibly grateful for how easily I was able to get pregnant. My heart aches for those who have had a different experience. But the idea that pregnancy is only excitement, joy, and glowing happiness from conception to birth is an unfair (and unrealistic) expectation to place on women.
You can be overjoyed and still hate the morning sickness.
You can be excited for the future and still feel miserable trying to roll over at night.
You can be grateful for your body’s ability to grow life and still feel frustrated every morning trying to find something to wear.
Pregnancy is often painted in joyful hues — but sometimes joy and grief show up together, hand in hand.
The First Goodbye
I knew something was going on before I knew exactly what it was (spoiler: I was pregnant). The first clue: weeks of bad runs.
If you run — or work out at all — you know that off days happen. But this wasn’t just one bad workout. Speed sessions fell apart, long runs felt inexplicably hard, and my body wasn’t responding the way it usually did. I wasn’t recovering well. My resting heart rate was elevated. My sleep was terrible.
My brain settled on two possibilities: COVID… or pregnancy. One test came back negative. The other showed two pink lines.
I found out the day before my half marathon. Maybe that timing was poetic — or maybe it was cruel. In that moment, joy wasn’t the first thing I felt. It was panic. Dread. Grief.
Because I knew that race — and deep down, my goal of qualifying for Boston in 2025 — was already gone.
Society tells us we should be elated at the sight of a positive pregnancy test. But standing there with it in my hand, just hours before a race I’d trained so hard for, I didn’t feel elated. I felt loss. The unspoken kind. The kind without a name.
The Weight of Letting Go
Running was the first thing I had to say goodbye to. And it nearly broke me.
I knew pregnancy would challenge me — especially because I was so in tune with my body from running. (The fact that I knew I was pregnant so early is proof of that.) But I didn’t expect it to feel like fighting myself.
My body no longer moved the way it used to. I couldn’t hit my paces. I didn’t have the legs for the long runs. Even easy runs felt like a mountain climb. And maybe the hardest part: I didn’t have the energy, physically or emotionally, to show up the way I always had.
Running has always been my safe space. My structure. My calm. My source of identity. Suddenly, it was unfamiliar — and that unfamiliarity made me feel lost.
Running wasn’t just something I did — it was who I was. Letting it go, even temporarily, meant losing a version of myself I’d spent years building.
Mourning What Mattered
Of course, there was grief in letting go of my Boston dream. But it went deeper than that.
Those races I had on the calendar weren’t just about results or PRs. They were a reflection of something bigger: my discipline, my drive, my desire to push myself. They were a symbol of who I was before this massive life change.
But there was an even harder grief to process — one I wasn’t prepared for.
It was the day-to-day heaviness that replaced the lightness I once found in movement. It was lacing up my shoes and sitting on the edge of the bed, knowing my ‘easy’ was going to be exceptionally difficult. Not because of injury or pain — but because I didn’t recognize myself anymore.
It’s hard to name the moment when something joyful becomes heavy.
Holding Space for Both
One of the most important lessons I’ve learned is that I’m not only capable of holding conflicting emotions at the same time — it’s okay to do that.
My pregnancy was filled with grief. Not just grief over the act of running, but grief for the version of myself I was slowly letting go of — even before I had the title of “mom.”
As time went on, I got better at holding that grief while also reaching for peace.
Peace that running will be there waiting for me.
Peace that change doesn’t mean loss — just something different.
Peace that the universe has my back, and that everything will unfold exactly as it should.
Looking Ahead, Looking Back
I don’t think mourning one identity while stepping into another is a bad thing.
We mourn what matters to us. We mourn the lives we’ve lived, the people we’ve been, the paths we poured ourselves into.
Grieving your pre-baby life doesn’t mean you aren’t grateful for what’s to come. It just means you’re human — and self-aware enough to recognize when something is worth missing.
The grief I once felt so overwhelmingly has softened. It still shows up sometimes, unexpectedly. But more and more, I find myself envisioning the future not with fear — but with quiet hope.
Like sitting outside on a perfect spring day… but now with a toddler chasing butterflies across the grass. Something I once did alone now filled with color and movement and laughter.
If You’re Feeling This Too
I wish more people talked about the grief that can come with pregnancy — and even postpartum — in the midst of joy. I wish we were more honest about the tug-of-war between excitement and loss.
So if you’re feeling it too, know this:
You’re allowed to grieve while celebrating.
You’re allowed to miss the past while stepping into the future.
You’re allowed to feel it all — even the feelings that don’t look like what we’ve been taught they should.
No matter what season you’re entering or leaving, honor it. Mourn it, if you need to. Celebrate what’s next, even as you say goodbye.
Hold the grief and the gratitude.
Mourn the loss while celebrating the beginning.
Honor your past self while embracing the new one.
We’re all just doing our best here — and your feelings are meant to be felt.
So feel them. All of them.
And know it will all work out, just like it’s supposed to.
