Page 145 of Babies for the Big Shot
Still, I nod, make a vague gesture toward an empty mat near the back, and lower myself with the grace of a collapsing futon.
My body is not built for stealth these days. Or speed. Or subtlety.
The triplets make their presence known in everything I do, from the way I breathe to the way I sit to the way I blink too hard and nearly cry.
The instructor introduces herself as Camber—of course she’s named Camber—and explains that today’s focus will be onsupport systems.
Excellent.
We start with introductions. Names, due dates, birth plans, partner insights.
Everyone has one. A partner, I mean. A glowing, eager-eyed co-creator of life.
There’s an accountant named Ben who’s brought an actual binder. A woman named Tessa whose wife has made them matching “Labor Squad” shirts. A high school teacher named Raj who says, “Whatever she needs, I’m there,” while his spouse beams as if she invented him.
When it’s my turn, I pause.
“I’m Sara,” I say. “Due… in four-and-a-half months’ time…”
“Do you have a partner joining you?” Camber asks gently.
I lie. “He had a work conflict.”
A pause. Then that soft, knowing nod. The kind that isn’t judgmental, not exactly, but deeply aware. She smiles with extra warmth, the way people do when they think you’re alone but bravely soldiering on.
“Well, we’resoglad you’re here,” she says, and somehow makes “you’re” sound like “bless your heart.”
Throughout the session, she keeps glancing my way every time she says “support.” It’s subtle, but not that subtle.
I can feel the eyes of the room darting over, trying to figure out which sob story I am. Widow? Divorcee? Surrogate for a couple who ghosted?
They don’t ask, but their silence is louder than any question.
We transition into breathwork. Camber dims the lights and encourages us to find a rhythm with our partner’s breath. She demonstrates with her husband, who’s joined for the demo.
He’s very tall, very calm, and has the dead eyes of a man who has attended seventeen of these classes and seen things he can’t unsee.
Everyone turns inward. Matching inhales. Gentle exhales.
I breathe alone.
Which I’ve done for most of my adult life, honestly, so this shouldn’t sting as much as it does. Maybe because this isn’t just adult life anymore.
It’s motherhood. It’s the beginning of something seismic and brutal and beautiful. And here I am, sitting in a room full of affirmation cards and partner poses, pretending I haven’t already started counting down the exits.
My eyes sting. I press my fingertips into the corners as if I’m fixing eyeliner instead of dignity.
Camber dims the lights further and puts on an acoustic cover of “Here Comes the Sun.”
I want to scream.
Instead, I sit through the next twenty minutes, half-listening to labor position tips and pelvic floor metaphors that make me want to crawl into the earth.
I try not to look at the other women, their soft smiles and whispered check-ins. I tell myself it’s fine. I tell myself this is brave. Independent. Empowered.
But it doesn’t feel that way.
It feels lonely.
