This upcoming Election Day holds a deeply personal significance for me. It marks exactly ten years since my mother passed away, coincides with me being six months pregnant with my first child, and unfolds amid an intensely polarized political climate—where winning the White House seems to overshadow the significance of life and death itself.

The day I found out I was pregnant was also the day former President Donald Trump was convicted on 34 felony counts. I heard my baby’s heartbeat for the first time on the same day President Biden had his disastrous debate performance. And I started writing this piece on the day of Trump’s assassination attempt.

What a world my child is about to be born into. And what a decade my mother has missed.

Before my child arrives, I’m grateful that I’ve managed to complete a book—”I Used to Like You Until…”—set to be released in September. It’s my way of ensuring that my child won’t see the world through a simplistic, binary lens, a lesson my mother also taught me. She was a woman so full of contradictions that I once overheard the nurses at the hospital where she passed away describe her as “the lady with all the pictures of the Pope and the dirty jokes.”

I never imagined I’d find myself in this situation. In fact, I had mentally prepared myself for every scenario except this one. I assumed I wouldn’t be able to conceive naturally, and once I did, I expected I would miscarry. After all, at 35, my pregnancy is considered “geriatric” by medical standards—a term that hardly inspires confidence. If you believe the cruel voices online, you’d be shocked that a 35-year-old woman could even find someone willing to have a baby with her.

The moment I found out I was pregnant wasn’t at all like I had envisioned. In my imagination, I would wake my husband, he would sit up immediately, his eyes filled with emotion as he looked at the test, and we’d share an unforgettable embrace. The reality? I struggled to wake him up, and when I finally did, he squinted at the faint line on the test, muttered something about needing better lighting, and rolled back over to sleep.

For me, too, the realization came gradually. The line on the test kept getting darker. A blood test confirmed it. Then the weeks passed, and I heard the heartbeat for the first time—and then again. There was never a dramatic moment of, “Oh my God, we’re going to be parents!” because I was far too aware of everything that could go wrong to fully indulge in that kind of emotional high.

And then there was the exhaustion—something I thought I understood. I’ve endured weeks of non-stop work, survived on minimal sleep, and lived both extremes of life: as someone who grinds relentlessly at work and as someone who parties until sunrise. But pregnancy exhaustion is an entirely different beast. It drains every ounce of energy from you, making you feel like you’re borrowing whatever little stamina you have left.

Before, exhaustion was proof of my dedication—to my career, to my social life. Now, I fear it’s just a sign of weakness. Every time I need a break, I worry I’m becoming too soft. Every time I decline an invitation because I’m too tired, I fear I’m losing the version of myself I’ve loved for so long. And all of this is compounded by the realization that motherhood is likely to be even harder.

I won’t sugarcoat it—there were moments when I was so tired and overwhelmed that I broke down in tears, doubting whether I could handle this. But I still chose to go on this journey. Why? Because my husband is an incredible man. Because I felt like something was missing in my life. Because I was curious. Because, in a way that might sound ridiculous, I thought having a baby would be fun—not in a trivial sense, but in the way that life’s most unexpected twists often lead to the best laughs. And laughing is my favorite part of being alive.

It seems like any reason to have a child can be perceived as selfish. But choosing not to have children is also labeled as selfish. The only way to escape judgment, apparently, is to be… a man.

I know I’m not the only one who has felt this way. Millions of women have go