By the time I hit six months pregnant, people were looking at me like I might go into labor in the cereal aisle. Every trip out turned into someone raising an eyebrow and saying, “Almost there, huh?” And I’d smile and say, “Nope, still got a few months.” Cue the stunned silence and awkward glances, like I was hiding a full-grown toddler in there.
I knew I looked big—but the reactions made me feel like I was doing something wrong. Like maybe I was overindulging, or secretly expecting twins, or flat-out fibbing about my due date. Even my sweet aunt Lela took me aside at a cookout and asked, “Honey… are you sure it’s just one?”
Yes, Aunt Lela. Just one. Every ultrasound showed the same little guy, bouncing around like he was king of the womb. My doctor said I had extra amniotic fluid, but nothing concerning—just a very prominent bump.
Then things took a strange turn.
At prenatal yoga, a woman named Trina kept glancing at my belly. After class, she stopped me in the parking lot and said, “You should really get another scan. My friend looked like you and…” she trailed off. “Just trust me.”
I brushed it off—but that night, I couldn’t shake her words. The next morning, I called my OB and got an appointment two days later.
I wish I could say that visit put my mind at ease—but it didn’t.
Dr. Mahmoud started the ultrasound like normal, chatting about food cravings. But suddenly, he got quiet. He frowned at the screen, moved the probe around, and finally said, “I’d like another doctor to take a look.”
My stomach dropped. “Is something wrong?” I asked.
He smiled—but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I just want to be thorough.”
Soon, another doctor, Dr. Klara, came in. They both stared at the screen, whispering. Then Dr. Mahmoud turned to me and said, “It’s still just one baby—but there’s something else we’re seeing. A mass. Likely benign. But it’s making your uterus stretch more than normal.”
“A mass?” I asked, my throat tightening.
“Possibly a fibroid,” he explained gently. “Very common. Usually harmless. But with the added fluid, it’s why your belly looks farther along.”
I nodded, but inside, I was spiraling.
I left with a referral and a stack of papers, then sat in my car, just trying to breathe.
A specialist confirmed it: a large fibroid, non-cancerous, but big enough to shove my baby into a weird position and make me look like I was having triplets.
Suddenly, it all clicked—the breathlessness, the tension in my stomach, the jabs of pain I thought were normal. But the fibroid also made monitoring the baby harder. It blocked certain views and impacted blood flow to part of the placenta. So, I started going in weekly for checkups. Scans, stress tests, repeat.
My belly kept expanding like I was smuggling a beach ball. I quit yoga. I stopped going out.
Then, seven weeks before my due date, I felt a deep, relentless cramp. Water didn’t help. Walking didn’t help. I landed in the hospital—and sure enough, I was in early labor.
It was a blur. Monitors, fast-talking nurses, my mom showing up half-dressed. They stopped the labor that night, but warned me I might not go full term.
I spent the next few weeks camped out on the couch, clutching a body pillow and rotating bags of frozen peas.
And then—on a rainy Tuesday—he arrived.
Niko.
Five pounds, eleven ounces. A full head of black hair. A cry that could shake the walls.
Because of the fibroid’s placement, they had to do a C-section. Recovery was rough. But I didn’t care. He was here. He was okay.
The fibroid eventually shrank on its own. No surgery needed.
But the one thing that stuck with me wasn’t the discomfort or the fear—it was how judged I felt. People assumed I was overeating or mistaken or lying, all based on how I looked. I wish people would lead with compassion instead of curiosity.
So if you see a pregnant woman with a big belly? Maybe don’t ask if she’s “ready to pop.” Just smile.
And if you are that pregnant woman, getting side-eyed and second-guessed—trust yourself. Speak up. Get that second scan. You know your body best.
Thanks for reading. If this resonated with you, feel free to share. It might just help another mama feel a little less alone.