Throwaway because this is far too personal to post under my usual username.
I'm 40 (I turned 40 last month), DH is 44, and we've been together for nearly twenty years. We have three boys aged 6, 4 and our youngest turns one very soon. Last week I found out I'm pregnant and, if I'm honest, my overwhelming feeling wasn't excitement. It was dread. I've spent the last wee lying awake at night, changing my mind every few hours and feeling guilty whichever way I look at it. I don't think I've ever felt so conflicted in my life.
Before anyone asks, this isn't because my husband is unsupportive or because I'm effectively raising the children on my own. If anything, that's part of why this is so difficult. DH is genuinely one of the kindest men I know. He's my best friend, we've built a lovely life together and he is an incredible father. When I showed him the positive test I burst into tears before I could even say anything. He didn't tell me to calm down or try to reassure me with platitudes. He just hugged me while I cried. Later that evening, after the boys had gone to bed, we sat up talking for hours. I admitted something that I almost felt ashamed to say out loud: I don't think I want another baby. I expected him to tell me I'd change my mind or that we'd cope because we always have. Instead, he simply listened. Since then he's told me repeatedly that whatever I decide, he'll support me completely. He's never once tried to persuade me to continue the pregnancy, and equally he's never suggested I should have an abortion. He keeps reminding me that although this affects both of us, I'm the one who has to go through another pregnancy, another birth and everything that follows. I know him well enough to know he's probably hurting too. I imagine hearing your wife say she's considering ending a pregnancy can't be easy, and I suspect a part of him would have welcomed another child. But if that's how he feels, he's put those feelings aside because he can see how overwhelmed I am.
He's also everything people say they want in a partner. He doesn't "help" with the children; he parents them. He does school runs, drop-offs, bedtime, bath time, cooking, shopping, cleaning, appointments, swimming lessons, reading stories, building Lego on the living room floor and getting up in the night. If one of the boys is poorly, he's just as likely to be the one sitting beside their bed. The boys absolutely adore him, and if I tell him I need an hour to myself he'll happily take all three of them to the park or out on their bikes without making me feel guilty for wanting some time alone. Over the last year he's been the one encouraging me to start putting myself first occasionally. Three evenings a week I either go swimming or exercise because I've realised it's one of the biggest things that keeps my mental health in a good place. He'll come home from work, tell me to go, and he'll sort dinner and bedtime because he knows I come back happier and calmer. I genuinely couldn't ask for a more supportive husband or father to my children.
The truth is that I don't think I want another child. Even writing that makes me feel like an awful person because I absolutely adore my boys. They are funny, affectionate, chaotic little people and I wouldn't change having any of them for the world. But motherhood has also been far harder than I ever expected. All three of them were complete Velcro babies. I breastfed all of them and, although I don't regret it, there were years where I genuinely felt as though my body wasn't my own anymore. Wherever we went it was always "Mummy, I want booby." I couldn't sit down for five minutes without someone climbing onto my lap. If they hurt themselves they wanted me. If they were poorly they wanted me. If they woke in the night they wanted me. Even if DH was sitting right beside them, fully capable of comforting them, they still wanted Mum. Everyone used to smile and say, "They just love their mummy," and of course they did, but it was relentless. I don't think people talk honestly enough about how all-consuming those early years are. Someone always needs something, someone is always touching you, someone always wants feeding, carrying or comforting. Being someone's safe place is a privilege, but it's also exhausting. Somewhere along the way I stopped feeling like a person in my own right and became "Mum" before anything else.
For the first time in years I had started to feel like I was getting myself back. Our youngest is almost one and life has slowly begun to feel easier. He's sleeping better, becoming more independent and we're finally moving beyond bottles, naps and that constant newborn fog. I've gone back to work three days a week and I've realised just how much I'd missed that side of myself. I enjoy using my brain in a different way. I enjoy talking to adults about things that aren't prep school places, school lunches. I've started exercising regularly again, I've met friends for coffee without taking half the contents of the house with me and, gradually, I've started to remember who I was before motherhood became my entire identity.
Turning 40 last month probably added to that feeling. I had been dreading the birthday because it felt like such a milestone, but DH secretly arranged for his parents to have the boys overnight and surprised me with a weekend away. It wasn't lavish, but it was honestly one of the nicest weekends we've had together in years. We went out for dinner, stayed out late, had a few drinks, danced and talked about everything except children. I actually spent time getting ready, did my hair and makeup properly and, for the first time in years, I looked in the mirror and genuinely felt good about myself. After three pregnancies years of breastfeeding and not always recognising my own body, that felt surprisingly emotional. I came home thinking that maybe this was the start of the next chapter. The boys are getting older, family life is becoming easier and perhaps I could finally start rebuilding the parts of myself that I'd quietly put on hold for so long.
The other huge part of this is my career. I know some people don't define themselves by work, and I completely respect that, but I do. I have a PhD and I worked incredibly hard to build a career in a competitive field that I genuinely love. It's not just a job that pays the bills; it's a huge part of who I am. Going back to work has reminded me how much I've missed that side of myself, but it's also highlighted how much motherhood has slowed my career. Nobody has discriminated against me or treated me badly. The reality is simply that while I've been pregnant, breastfeeding, on maternity leave, working flexibly and leaving promptly for nursery collections, younger colleagues have been able to say yes to every opportunity that comes their way. They've travelled, stayed late, networked, taken on big projects and been promoted. One younger colleague said recently that watching my career had actually helped her decide not to have children because she didn't want to make the same sacrifices. She wasn't trying to be unkind. If anything, she sounded sympathetic. But I couldn't honestly tell her she was wrong. I have sacrificed a great deal professionally, and I do sometimes grieve the career I might have had. My career matters to me. I want to get back into the swing of things. I want to feel ambitious again instead of permanently feeling like I'm playing catch-up.
Now all I can think about is another pregnancy, another maternity leave, another pause and another few years before I can really throw myself back into work again. Financially we'd manage. We have enough love, we'd make room somehow and DH would be every bit as involved with a fourth child as he has been with the first three. This isn't really about whether we'd cope because I know we would. It's about whether I actually want to start all over again just as I feel like I'm finally emerging from the hardest years.
The thought I keep coming back to is this: if I wasn't pregnant, I wouldn't be trying for another baby. In fact, I'd been looking forward to this next stage of our lives. That thought feels important, but it also fills me with guilt because I know there are people who would give anything to be pregnant. I honestly don't know which decision I'd regret more. Part of me thinks I'll always wonder about the baby that might have been if I have an abortion. Another part of me worries that if I continue the pregnancy I'll quietly grieve the life I was only just beginning to get back. I feel trapped between two futures, both of which involve losing something important.
Has anyone genuinely been in this position? Not hypothetically, but actually faced this decision. How did you make peace with whichever choice you made? Please be kind. I don't think I've ever felt so lost.