By the time I reached eight months of pregnancy, my body no longer felt like something I fully owned. Every movement required calculation, every errand felt like a negotiation with gravity, exhaustion, and pain. My ankles swelled no matter how much I rested, my back throbbed with a constant dull ache, and my hands tingled as though even holding small objects demanded more strength than I had.

That afternoon, the grocery store had felt endless—bright lights, long aisles, people brushing past without seeing me. I loaded the cart slowly, conscious of every bend and reach, reminding myself to breathe through the discomfort.

When I finally made it home, the weight of the grocery bags cut into my palms, the plastic handles biting into skin already sensitive from swelling. I stood at the bottom of the stairs, my heart pounding harder than it should have, feeling foolish for how overwhelmed I felt by something so ordinary.

I called out to my husband, my voice quieter than usual, asking if he could help me carry the bags upstairs. Before he had the chance to answer, my mother-in-law’s voice rang out sharply from the kitchen, dismissive and loud enough to make my chest tighten. She said pregnancy was natural, not an illness, and reminded everyone within earshot that she had managed everything on her own when she was pregnant.