Lessons of Self-Love, Worthiness, and Non-Attachment from Morning Sickness

I began motherhood with a mantra that beat steady as a heart in my mind, all day and all night: I can’t do this. The first time those words took hold of me was shortly after finding out I was pregnant with my older daughter Penny. My husband Killian and I lived on The Big Island of Hawaii at the time, and I woke up to a typical warm September morning, the birdsong outside calling us to rise ahead of our alarm. The night before, I had eaten a big bowl of pasta and veggies, and I went to bed feeling perfectly fine. But that morning I woke up feeling like my sense of reality had been flipped upside down. Everything made me want to vomit.

My mother had warned me about how severe her morning sickness had been with all six of her babies, but I hadn’t realized how suddenly it could come on. All of the things I liked just the day before now caused me extreme nausea: the piney scent of Killian’s body wash, the fragrant plumeria outside our windows, the tart blackberries I usually had for breakfast. Even the thought of the pasta was stomach-churning. Each of those little bits of smells and flavors that I’d loved and taken for granted now made me want to puke. My nausea was so intense that even certain colors and sounds made me feel ill. Who knew orange could be so revolting? I felt displaced within my own body, ungrounded by this overnight change in how my senses perceived the world.

            In a desperate attempt to ease the nausea and regain my sense of self, I tried every single piece of advice I could get my hands on. What commenced was a fun game of Guess What You’ll Throw Up Next. I threw up ginger ale, ginger candies, bland toast, bananas, vitamin B6 drops, crackers, applesauce, and a very expensive tea that was supposed to be a “miracle” for curing morning sickness. I tried aromatherapy (the smell of peppermint made me gag) and exercise (I vomited mid-prenatal Pilates) and wearing those pressure point bracelets that people use for seasickness (all they did was make my wrists sweaty). When I mentioned how sick I was to my doctor, he shrugged it off as normal. But I didn’t feel so normal when I threw up at the mere mention of the word “pickles,” or when I had to give myself a pep talk just to force down a glass of water. 

            In those first few days of being sick, the mantra began: I can’t do this. I wondered why on earth anyone had babies ever. I wondered if I was just weaker than other women. I wondered if I was the crazy one or if my doctor was the crazy one. Either way, the question remained: How was I going to survive this?

            Killian and I very much wanted and planned for our baby. At the time, I viewed the threshold of motherhood as a marker of achievement. I would create a beautiful child and take on a sacred role, and my life would truly mean something. After nine months of trying and one early miscarriage, I was pregnant. My feet were at the threshold, and that child and my new role were in creation. How very humbling it was to find myself so sick that I couldn’t even think about the baby at all. I went into survival mode, and my body was screaming at me to get rid of the thing inside me that was causing me to feel sick. I remember the shame pulsing through my veins as I quietly looked up abortions a couple days into the morning sickness.

            Of course, I didn’t follow through. And what I couldn’t admit quite fully at the time was how much my own anxiety worsened the morning sickness. The truth was that I didn’t believe I was worthy of being a mother. I externalized my self-worth into the role of motherhood, as if simply being able to call oneself a mother is symbolic of some kind of success in life. Deep down, I knew this wasn’t true. I worried that all the work I still needed to do on myself meant that I was not good enough to take care of a child. Perhaps the disconnection I felt to my own sense of self, to my own body, and to the baby inside me was due in part to that belief that only external achievements would determine my value as a human being. If only external achievements determined that value, I was worth very little. And if I was worth very little, then who was I to take on that role of motherhood, that role I held in such high regard?

            No wonder I felt sick to my stomach. It wasn’t the baby inside me that was the enemy, nor was it the morning sickness that caused me to think I can’t do this. I had planted the seeds that grew into the mantra long before the nausea began, long before Killian and I even talked about having a baby at all. When faced with the reality of motherhood, all my worst fears about my own self, my own capabilities, my own worthiness arose to the surface. This was not something ginger ale could cure.

            Morning sickness, from a purely biological standpoint, is a protective mechanism of the body. Nausea and aversions help prevent expectant mothers from ingesting something that could harm their baby. But for some women, the sickness becomes extreme and can seem to have the opposite effect, weakening their bodies and turning all food, and even water, into something that registers as toxic. Sometimes, during those many hours I spent crying over how miserable I felt, I couldn’t help but wonder this: What if my body thought I was harmful to my baby? What if that was why it turned against me so strongly? What if that was why nothing helped me feel better?

            Then Killian dragged me out to Costco and bought me a hot dog and a cup of Sprite, and for nearly three whole hours afterward I felt amazing. It felt like more of a miracle than the “miracle” tea I had tried. But really, a hot dog? And Sprite? I’m not a soda drinker, and I’d been vegetarian most of my life. I had envisioned a pregnancy diet full of fruits and vegetables and nuts (and, let’s be honest, some Oreos too) to nourish my precious baby, but the only green thing I had going for me was my face when I thought about a bowlful of kale. I never would have thought that lunch at Costco would be my saving grace.

            The lesson was not that crappy food was the answer to my problems. I don’t even think the lesson was that protein and iron and a carbonated drink were all I needed to feel better (although it did help a little moving forward). I believe the lesson was to show myself some compassion. To forgive my imperfections, and to release those unrealistic expectations I held for myself. To rest, to stay open. To sometimes be willing to listen to Killian, even when his suggestions seem bizarre. The only sure thing in life is that nothing is sure. One day the Costco meal was my miracle cure; the next it was not. But during those three hours of pure bliss, when I forgave myself for being only human, I had my first glimmer of hope that maybe I could do this after all.

I had no idea what was ahead of me from there, the challenges and joys Killian and I would encounter as we became the parents to two sweet, strong-willed, curious, bright little girls. And now, just about five years into motherhood, I have no idea what the rest of this journey will bring. What I do know is that the more I work to embrace my worthiness, both as a human and as a mother, the more fully I step into the woman I want to become. The more I allow myself that spaciousness, to give myself grace, to embrace the unknown, the more connected I am with myself and my daughters. If there is one thing motherhood teaches us, it is how to love courageously. But we cannot do that for our children if we do not do that for our own selves first.