My name is Caroline, I’m 32 years old, and I’m a journalist. I’m a single mother to a little boy named Ismaël, who is just over a year old, and I raise him alone.
The emotional context
To set the scene, the relationship between the father of my son and me started off very strong. It began as a friendship, but at times it overflowed. We had known each other for eight years, but we had been seeing each other regularly for four years. In 2018, I got pregnant with him for the first time while on birth control. It’s rare but possible, especially if you're also on antibiotics, which some doctors fail to mention can cancel out the effectiveness of the pill. I panicked and decided to have an abortion. I went through this process without telling him. Of course, I told him before the procedure, but he was really hurt by not being properly consulted. Since I was going backpacking in Brazil, I couldn’t have a medical abortion because of the risk of hemorrhage. Plus, abortion is illegal there. So, I went on vacation with friends, still pregnant, knowing the fetus was growing, while my abortion was planned for after my return. Only one of my friends was in the know.
The abortion
I had the abortion by curettage in September 2018. The procedure went well without complications. I wanted to leave the hospital as soon as possible, and by that evening, I was out at a restaurant as if nothing had happened. But deep down, I knew I wasn’t going to take it well. I felt guilty about everything—especially for women who couldn’t have children while I had the opportunity but didn’t want it. I regretted that I had this chance and let it slip away. Who knew if I’d ever be able to get pregnant again? It made me sick; I developed chronic illnesses and experienced intense somatization. This abortion marked the beginning of a long descent into hell, and I felt so alone.
At first, I could talk to the father about it. He found the right words to comfort me and reassured me that I wasn’t alone, that he also thought about it every day. For context, he already had a child. But eventually, it became a taboo subject. We kept seeing each other, but it was hard for me. I turned to alternative medicine for help—chiropractic, osteopathy, and sophrology. Originally, I was someone who didn’t speak at all, someone very private who believed I could handle everything alone. This experience taught me that wasn’t possible.
In the span of a year, I visited my gynecologist between five and ten times. I was going crazy! I was convinced that something was wrong, that I had become sterile after the abortion and would never be able to have children again. I kept telling myself, “I’m sure I’ll regret this for the rest of my life.” I felt so guilty. I think the irreversible nature of the decision is the hardest part to deal with. Today, I have some perspective, and I know I made that decision for a good reason and that it was the best thing to do. I believe it's so important, even essential, to have the choice—to be the one to decide. Even though no woman makes this choice lightly, and we must never downplay abortion.
The uterine septum
On January 6, 2020, I turned 30. That same day, I had an appointment with a highly-rated gynecologist I didn’t know. What I didn’t realize was that he specialized in fertility issues (which wasn’t why I was there). During the appointment, he did a pelvic ultrasound and told me I had a uterine septum. I had no idea what that was, I’d never even heard of it!
A uterine septum is a malformation of the uterus. There are different types, from partial to complete. If it’s partial (like mine), it doesn’t prevent pregnancy but increases the risks. The main risks are repeated miscarriages, late-term miscarriages, and preterm labor. There aren’t necessarily any symptoms, so you could have a septum and not even know it.
The doctor told me, “At least you’re not sterile, since you managed to get pregnant once,” then added, “but with a uterine septum, things are more complicated than for other women.” If I were pregnant, it would automatically be considered a “high-risk pregnancy.” He asked if I was planning to have a baby and even mentioned freezing my eggs! I received this news on my 30th birthday, right in the middle of my recovery process, and it hit me hard. I left his office and walked to the restaurant where my friends were waiting to celebrate my birthday.
Getting pregnant a second time
A year passed, and I continued seeing the man I had strong feelings for, partly because he felt like my best friend. As crazy as it sounds, I got pregnant again. Same man, same circumstances. I didn’t yet have pregnancy signs, but I felt something was off. Irony of ironies, I had finally met someone I really liked. We were just at the stage where we were gently getting to know each other. I remember writing somewhere, “I’ve met someone, there’s a good vibe, I really like him, but I hope I’m not pregnant.” How do you tell someone you’ve just started to like that you’re pregnant?
I had a little doubt, but I went to visit a friend in Marseille for a few days, acting as if nothing was going on. It was summer, and I wanted to enjoy myself. When I returned to Paris, I took a test, and suddenly, I found myself three years back, in the same situation, in the same apartment, on the same couch, all alone. I can’t even remember what I felt—it was all a blur. I cried. It was pure panic, but at the same time, I think I was happy. I had regretted the first time, and the fact that this was happening exactly the same way wasn’t lost on me. Now I had a choice: to choose myself and feel like I was “fixing” things or to choose others and have the child removed, regretting it forever.
I won’t lie, I was almost certain I’d be alone during this pregnancy. So I told myself I had two options and gave myself time to think. It was easy for me to pinpoint the timing of the pregnancy since we weren’t in a relationship, so I knew exactly when we last saw each other. I was four weeks pregnant. I took a blood test to confirm the pregnancy and saw my gynecologist. This appointment had been scheduled for a while since we were supposed to check on the uterine septum and discuss possible surgery. But in the meantime, I’d gotten pregnant, which changed everything. I told her I wanted to keep the baby, immediately adding, “Well, if it’s possible,” as if I was asking for her permission! It’s crazy how we can infantilize ourselves (or be infantilized!). My gynecologist told me we’d try, and during the ultrasound, she couldn’t see anything. We scheduled another appointment for a week later to see if the pregnancy was viable or if I’d miscarried. I couldn’t allow myself to celebrate just yet.
A week later, my big sister is with me for the decisive appointment. I realize that I have been praying for several days for us to hear the heartbeat. It’s too late, I’m already attached! That day, we do hear the heartbeat. My sister, in the room next door, starts crying. The gynecologist is also moved. However, she immediately confirms that I will need to be monitored at a level 3 maternity hospital: I’m considered a "high-risk pregnancy." On her advice, I register at Port-Royal.
Announcing my pregnancy
It was time to tell the father of the baby. I was really anxious because deep down, I already knew how the conversation—and the whole situation—would end. He came over to my place one afternoon, and I told him everything, without really giving him a choice. Looking back, I feel a bit guilty about that; it was awkward. But this time, I had decided to choose myself, not him. He stayed for a while, and there were a lot of silences. A few sentences exchanged, some words that mattered and that I could hold onto later, some questions but no support. I told him that if he wanted to play a role in the child's life, my door was open. The day I got confirmation of my pregnancy’s viability, I sent him a message to let him know, and he replied briefly, ending the message with "Good luck with the future." After all these years.
I never replied to that message. To this day, I’ve never heard from him. A few weeks later, he deleted me from social media. That didn’t seem to be enough, because a few months later, he even blocked me. I find it crazy to live knowing that there's a child I have, and he doesn't even know, just 2 kilometers away!
I also had to announce it to my loved ones, my family, my friends—that I was pregnant and that I would be doing it alone. Plus, with a high-risk pregnancy, I couldn’t really rejoice. But because it was risky, I wanted to tell my parents and my best friends right away. Everyone took it rather well, my parents were super happy and immediately supported me. Afterward, I felt like I had to explain the entire context with every announcement: justify myself, immediately say I hadn’t gotten pregnant behind anyone’s back, that I had known this person for a long time, that I hadn’t met them in a nightclub (and even if I had, so what?!).
I realized that if I had this reaction, it was because before (and not too long ago), I would have very likely judged such news. A precarious situation, incomprehensible, not a "classic" model. But one must also know that in France, 1 in 4 families is a single-parent family. That's huge!
These signs allowed me to realize what was going to happen and the choice I had made. For the first time in my life, I had chosen myself. But with this decision, I also had to mourn a relationship, a friendship, a love, habits, and an "ideal" and "classic" life pattern.
Pregnancy
I didn’t particularly enjoy being pregnant; I feel like I didn’t really take advantage of it. I took a few photos so I wouldn’t forget, and because I knew I’d regret it otherwise. They’re somewhere in my email inbox, but it took me a long time to actually look at them. I didn’t like dressing up, I didn’t want anyone to see me, I did everything to hide it. Looking back, it feels like I deliberately skipped over a lot of things, as if my pregnancy had been stolen from me.
During the second lockdown, I went to my parents’ place in the countryside to work remotely. The gynecologist wanted to put me on leave really early, at 16 weeks, but I managed to negotiate since everything was going well. It was really important for me to keep working, to stay active. At 6 months pregnant, I didn’t have any other choice, and I finally accepted to go on maternity leave. In the end, it did me good.
I returned to Paris in January 2021. I continued with osteopathy and sophrology. Everything was fine, even though the doctors were a little concerned that my baby wasn’t developing enough due to the uterine septum (he was quite small). So, I had ultrasounds every two weeks.
The birth
I gave birth almost a month before my due date. Until the end, I took the metro for all my trips. I didn't have many pregnancy pains, except for ligament pain when I slept or turned over in the late stages of pregnancy. I think my son deliberately didn't bother me, as if he was being discreet.
My nightmare? Having to go to the maternity ward in the middle of the night! Since I was alone, the logistics were complicated, it was a real issue for me! For example, I had prepared a suitcase and a bag for the day of delivery, but in the end, I could only leave with the bag. It was impossible to lift the suitcase, let alone in the stairs! Everything was planned, anticipated, and controlled as much as possible.
On March 2, 2021, I felt some discomfort, like menstrual cramps. I had some back pain, and I hadn’t slept well. I felt that something had been happening since the day before. I had some first contractions that were a bit painful but manageable. They were spaced out, so I took my time: I tidied up the apartment a bit, took a shower, and ate something...
Then things sped up, and it became much more painful. I called an Uber and informed my family (who were in Orléans) that I was heading to the maternity ward. My obsession was that the driver wouldn't think I was on my way to give birth—I was too afraid that he would panic and refuse the ride! So I had to manage my contractions in silence, sitting in his car with my mask on, trying to focus on a Netflix series! Of course, there was a lot of traffic, and the trip felt like it lasted forever. When we were almost at the hospital, the driver asked if he could drop me off at the red light because it was more convenient for him. And I said yes! I prayed not to have a contraction while crossing the street!
When I arrived at the maternity ward, I was told that, since it was my first child, I was probably there for nothing, as it was common. They checked me, and I was already dilated to over 3 cm. So, I stayed! I informed my mom, who came from Orléans. We had discussed it, and she was the one who would be present at the birth. I think she really saw it as a gift—it’s rare to witness your own daughter’s childbirth!
When she arrived, they had just administered the epidural. I never left the room where they had settled me. I was comfortable, making jokes, and no longer in pain. I appreciated being able to control the dosage of my epidural. One thing I didn’t know during labor? That they had to regularly empty our bladder with a catheter! I learned that on the day! Shows that there are still things they don’t tell you.
The birth went very well: I had 7 hours of labor, 3 pushes, and I gave birth at 11:31 PM. I used to criticize the prenatal classes, but in reality, they really helped! I had a small tear. The stitches were done by an intern because the midwife wasn’t comfortable—no one knew yet if I was hemorrhaging. After the birth, I had to wait for 2 hours with compresses to check if I was bleeding. Not the most pleasant!
When Ismaël was born, I think it took me a while to understand. I had a lot of emotions, but I didn’t cry. I knew he was there, but I didn’t realize that he was my son. And since we’re quickly infantilized (even at the maternity ward!), when people talked to me, I sometimes felt like I was his sister! I had to learn to assert myself, to find my place.
Postpartum
Even though the tear was small, the stitches were way too tight. As a result, I was constantly in pain, I couldn’t stay in the same position, carrying my son was painful—it was hell. But you don’t know that these pains aren’t normal! In my mind, I had just given birth, so of course, I was going to continue suffering. So, I’ll say it: being in intense pain for several days or even weeks is not normal.
The first few days, I spent them with my sister and my mother in my tiny apartment in Paris. Looking back, it was really nice. We were among women, taking turns to care for my son. It felt like a pack of wolves. Then I moved to live with my parents in the countryside for the first 2 months. And thank goodness, because honestly, I don’t know how I would have done without them. When Ismaël was 2 months old, we both returned to Paris. I only had one room at the time, so we were sleeping together in any case.
I had decided to breastfeed, or at least try. “If it goes well, great, if not, no worries.” It went really well, but I hadn’t anticipated that he wouldn’t accept weaning—it was like he was trying to maintain a bond. I tried for months and months to give him the bottle, with no success. In the end, I felt trapped in breastfeeding. Plus, being alone with him meant I could never leave him. One day, when he was 10 months old, he magically accepted the bottle, and that was it! Since it was his choice and he wasn’t forced or rushed, weaning went really well. I’m so proud of having been able to breastfeed him for 10 months—it’s such an amazing experience!
What traumatized me the most was the lack of sleep. Ismaël was a baby who only slept on me (or with family members!). Day and night. Babywearing really saved my postpartum, even though it was still incredibly hard because I have the flaw of not being able to let go. I wanted to keep managing everything, I was putting insane pressure on myself. I didn’t sleep for more than 2 hours at a stretch for over a year. Even after weaning (so no, breastfeeding isn’t to blame for broken nights, if it needs to be emphasized!). I never let anyone take him because I was afraid of disturbing others. And I confirm: lack of sleep is torture. I understand how it can literally drive you crazy. I felt so guilty. I thought it was all my fault, that I was stressing him out. At the same time, I ended up crying many nights, shouting. I had a very difficult postpartum, especially since the life I was leading was completely opposite to the life I had always known. I used to go out a lot, had an important social life, always work events, and travel. And then, overnight, it all stopped. And with it, a mental load multiplied by 10. I felt incredibly lonely, alone in everything. I had idealized my life with him, all the things we’d do, that my friends would be super present, etc. So when I found myself alone, it was incredibly hard. Slowly, though, things started falling into place. I kept repeating to myself, "It all passes, Caroline, it all passes. One day, it will get better, and you will look back on these moments and be proud of yourself, of you both!" Today, Ismaël is 16 months old, and I love him more than anything. I’ve never regretted my choice. He is a blessing, and he radiates an energy that everyone feels. He’s a true sunshine in my life. I know why he chose me. There are still some tough moments, nerves that crack, but overall, when I look back, I think, "Wow, we did it!"
Advice for moms
What helped me a lot were social networks. From the beginning of my pregnancy, I joined Josépha Raphard’s Loma Club. Then I started sharing more personal things, and it felt good. I received a lot of feedback, a lot of exchanges. But you also need to know how to filter, Instagram is a great tool, but it can also be toxic. I know that when people tell you “everything will pass,” it can be annoying, and it seems far away. But in reality, nothing is more true—it all passes. When I went through nights with no sleep, staying up to rock him, I thought I would end up dying of exhaustion, because it’s possible to die from exhaustion! But then, every morning, I woke up and managed to go through the day as if nothing had happened. I had enough energy to do a lot of things! The body is well-made (even though it’s really hard to reconnect with it), and the mind is powerful.
I also try to communicate better. Even though I’m surrounded, motherhood has really filtered out my circle, and my loved ones don’t always understand what I’m going through. In reality, I feel very alone in my motherhood! I’m often told that I’m brave, but how brave am I really? The problem was that for a long time, I was the only one of my friends who had a child, so I think they didn’t realize. My mother was a major element and a true strength in helping me with motherhood. Other than her, no one really helped me. No one helped with the housework or prepared food for me! Honestly, without my mother, I don’t know how I would have gotten through my postpartum. So, my advice is: surround yourself, but surround yourself well! It’s crucial, whether you’re in a couple or not.
Motherhood awakens a lot of things in mothers. It highlights certain flaws and areas we need to work on. So my final advice is to accept and welcome all the emotions and storms you’re going to go through. Everything is okay, nothing is abnormal, and everything will eventually fall into place.
Final word
Honestly? We’re really powerful.
