When people talk about pregnancy, they usually talk about the physical changes.
The cravings. The nausea. The baby kicks. The endless doctor’s appointments.
While all of those things are all legit, there has been another part of pregnancy that completely caught me off guard.
I’ve spent more time thinking about my own childhood than I ever expected.
Like, there are everyday moments that just bring those memories back.
Something as simple as talking with my husband about the kind of parents we hope to be, or walking through the baby aisle at Target, has made me stop and think about the home I grew up in.
Another thing I didn’t expect was how many conversations pregnancy would spark between Milton and me.
Sometimes we’ll be talking about baby essentials or bedtime routines, and before I know it, we’re talking about our own childhoods.
Those conversations don’t always come easily for me.
I’m a sensitive person, and vulnerability is still something I’m learning. Sometimes I can already feel myself getting emotional before I even know how to explain what I’m feeling. Part of me worries that I’ll cry or won’t have the right words.
But every single time we’ve had those conversations, I’ve walked away grateful that we did.
They’ve helped us understand each other more deeply, dream about the kind of family we want to build, and remind us that we can’t do this on our own.
As my husband and I prepare to welcome our son later this year, I keep finding myself asking questions I never really had to answer before.
What kind of home do I want him to grow up in?
How do I want him to remember his childhood?
What kind of mom do I want to be?
And those questions naturally led me to another one:
What was my own childhood like?
Some memories are sweet. I don’t think there were many, but I do remember a season when my parents were still together. On the good days, we’d all be in the living room laughing together.
Many other memories are painful. The kinds of things I hope stop with me.
I really wasn’t expecting pregnancy to bring so much of my own past back to the surface.
It’s almost like preparing to raise a child has also invited me to revisit the child I used to be.
The more I think about the kind of childhood I hope to give my son, the more I realize it’s less about creating a perfect home and more about creating a safe one.
I want our home to be one where saying, “I’m sorry,” isn’t rare.
Where laughter is normal.
Where everyone has a voice.
Where hard questions are welcomed instead of shut down.
Those things matter deeply to me.
At the same time, this season has made me look at my parents differently.
When I was younger, they were simply “Mom” and “Dad.”
Now I see two people who were also someone’s children.
Two people carrying their own stories, disappointments, fears, and wounds into parenthood.
As an adult (and now as someone preparing to become a parent myself) I realize they were figuring it out as they went.
Just like I will be.
That doesn’t erase the painful parts of my childhood. And it doesn’t mean I have to pretend those experiences didn’t affect me.
But it has given me compassion I didn’t have before.
I genuinely believe my parents did the best they could with what they had at the time.
I’ve learned that both things can be true.
I can grieve what hurt me. And I can extend grace to the people who raised me.
Those truths don’t compete with one another.
If anything, they’ve helped me move closer to forgiveness than resentment.
One thing I’ve realized is that becoming a parent doesn’t magically heal your own story. It shines a light on the places that still need healing.
Questions about safety, communication, and what love looks like in a family.
As uncomfortable as that has been, I’m grateful it’s happening now instead of years down the road.
It’s giving me an opportunity to invite God into places I’ve ignored for a long time.
Because if there’s one thing this season has taught me, it’s this:
I cannot become the mother I hope to be through sheer willpower.
I need God’s wisdom.
I need His patience.
I need His grace.
Not only for raising my son, but for continuing to heal me, too.
I’m sure I’ll make mistakes.
Every parent does.
So, I’m not aiming for perfection.
I’m praying that, years from now, when my son thinks about his childhood, he’ll know he was deeply loved.
And that’s what gives me hope.
That, by God’s grace, I can choose what gets carried into the next generation.
Before I wrap this up, I’d love to hear from the parents reading this.
Did pregnancy or parenthood make you reflect on your own childhood in ways you weren’t expecting?
How did you navigate those emotions while also preparing to raise your own child? Was there anything that helped you process those memories in a healthy way—for yourself, your marriage, and your family?
I’d genuinely love to hear your experiences. I have a feeling I’m not the only one who’s walked this road.
Warmly,
Adri 💙
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