As I settle into my side of the bed, my legs wrapped around one segment of the pregnancy pillow my partner gifted me for Christmas, the other segment firmly securing my back, I begin to drift into sleep. These days it is not as simple as trailing off into my thoughts and then yielding to the dizziness of slumber. The occupant inside my womb loves to announce his presence at precisely this moment, when I am lying on my left side. The instant I place my hand upon the right side of my belly, just above my navel, I can sense the outline of a foot jabbing against my flesh. Sometimes the kick feels so pronounced I squeal a little out of surprise. It’s like this child has conflated my sleep time with play, which, I suppose, is a small hint of what my life will be after motherhood is established as fact. I do not, however, resent this intrusion. In fact I have come to cherish this unforeseen retreat into bodily consciousness, an unexpected consequence of pregnancy. There is a privacy to this whole process of gestation that makes one’s experience of it so utterly unique and personal, something about the individuality of each womb, and the cellular specificity of each growing foetus that differentiates pregnancy from other physiological circumstances. This comes as a delicious revelation to me, considering the many apprehensions I had about perceiving my body as potentially maternal.

The notion of a life form growing inside me and gradually emerging into the world was one I simply couldn’t fathom for many years. As I relish the final seven weeks before the next phase begins, I have found myself thinking a lot about the oft-pedalled concept of safe spaces, especially because, as a host to a life form, I have had to make such a concerted effort to ensure an ideal uterine environment for my guest. The odd thing about my long-standing apprehensions about bearing a child was this feeling of slight envy I always carried within me whenever I witnessed the congenital bond between mother and child. I am speaking here about mothering in its varied manifestations, for there are many ways to become a mother, from adoption to surrogacy. Until I offered myself the chance to heal through therapy I was terrified of motherhood because I was afraid of my child inheriting my traumas. I suppose all my psychological labour of rediscovering my selfhood by bridging the schism between body and mind allowed me a chance of rehabilitation. I became my own safe space, which meant I was less dependent on the need for other safe spaces in order to articulate my consciousness.