“You’re being dramatic,” my husband said when I mentioned taking maternity leave at seven months pregnant. According to Doug, his mother worked until delivery day, so my exhaustion must be laziness. Nevermind that I was still managing full-time work while my body worked overtime growing our child.
So I showed him what “lazy” looked like – spotless house, homemade meals, perfect employee – all while my back ached and feet swelled. His proud “See? You’re fine” comments made my blood boil.
Then came the reckoning. While Doug thought he was home alone, my doula friend arrived with a parenting crash course. My college roommate brought her twin newborns for real-world practice. Seven hours later, I returned to find a broken man – hair matted with spit-up, muttering about “synchronized screaming fits.”
The scrapbook I’d prepared – documenting every silent struggle, every swollen limb, every exhausted note I’d left him – drove the point home. His tearful apology included a call to his mother, who dropped the bombshell: she’d actually taken four months of pregnancy leave. The “strong woman” narrative he’d used against me? A complete myth.
Now he brings me tea without asking and finally understands – true strength isn’t about suffering in silence, but about honoring your body’s wisdom. And that lesson? Priceless.
