Why I "Kylie Jenner-ed" My Pregnancy

The internet is a bookmark.


A little placeholder you can flip to whenever you want and pick up where you left off, like the dog-eared corner of your favorite chapter. But if you were a chronically online teen like I was, that bookmark isn’t some dainty slip of laminated paper from Barnes & Nobles. It’s not a grocery receipt, a faded Polaroid, a sticky note that lost its stick months ago.

It’s actually not small at all. Standing tall and prominent, surrounded by viewers that travel from all over just to get a glimpse. 
It’s a monument.

Proof that you lived there once.

My own glowing online landmark, following me faithfully for over a decade. I built a business with. Overshared with it. Grew with it. Grieved with it. Rewrote myself again and again, post by post.

The archives of Instagram? More like a trap door to time.

One wrong scroll and suddenly it’s 2013 again….2016…2020….and I’m cringing, laughing, crying at all my versions like they’re ghosts at a séance. It took me a long time to understand that the way I see myself and the way others see me aren’t just different

—they’re galaxies apart.


People meet me and say, “You’re nothing like I imagined.”

And I wonder…

Who exactly did they imagine?


A mean girl? A saint? A party girl with no depth?

Or maybe the opposite—too much of it?

It’s naive, I know now, to think anyone sees us exactly as we see ourselves. 
But damn if it doesn’t shake me up every time.

To me, I’m a giver. A lover. A friend with a too-tender heart. I’m a creative force. A thoughtful partner. Sometimes extra, sometimes quiet. Loud enough to fill a room, and other times invisible, somewhere behind the curtains.

No two people know me the same.

I'm exactly who they want me to be.



But still—I’m somebody.



And what a wild, beautiful privilege it is… to be somebody.

Being seen online is a double-edged sword. 
You get praise, sure. But criticism slices just as deep. Sometimes I still feel intimidated to post on social media. Scared that someone would call me cringey, untalented, too much, not enough. And let’s be real—someone out there does think that.


But someone else thinks I’m magic.

In the early days, I tiptoed. Filtered. Edited. Trimmed the fat and walked on metaphorical glass, trying to blend in.
 God forbid I be different.

This lil business of mine was my golden ticket. The biggest butterfly effect of my life. It wasn’t until I smashed those self-imposed rules and showed up messy, muddy, real—that things finally started moving. Everything I thought others were thinking about me…
Was all made up.
 By me. 


A greatest hits collection of my own insecurities, projected onto imaginary strangers.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the glass box feeling. The weird sensation of being watched, observed, interpreted—but never fully seen. Somehow I still manage to tell strangers on the internet the deepest parts of me, and weirdly… it feels right.

I know what you’re here for today and I see you scrolling through looking for the key words of when I get to the juicy parts. Probably thinking to yourself:

"Goooodddd, does she ever shut up?"

Let me make it easy for you.

I don’t know how I would begin to explain it....but-

One Day, It Just Slows Down.

You stop obsessively checking Instagram to see if they watched your story. 
Hell, you stop posting altogether.
 The digital stage loses its shine. Keeping up with yourself still matters but you cut out the people that make it feel like a race. Trends feel… silly. 
I don’t need TikTok to tell me what’s in, what’s hot, what’s worthy.
 You start hanging out with your friends quietly with no agenda, no perfectly curated instagram post, just presence. 


There’s no longer an itch to escape. 
No “where-to-next” countdown in your head. You’re content, rooted ,
comfortable exactly where you are. Life is sweeter when it’s not all up for grabs.

Because not everything needs to be known.


And not everything worth knowing should be a broadcast.

Some things—
the best things—
are better kept soft, sacred,
 and just a little bit secret.

So yes, one day it all just slows down.
 Not because life gets easier. 
But because you get comfortable.
 More sure of who you are.


I dubbed my 25th year as the “year of mental clarity”.

With a fully developed brain (finally), I replanted myself back in my hometown. My long, dirt-covered roots torn from Rhode Island soil…Settling in again.

When you question what your purpose is in the universe, you will fuck around & find out.

The years I spent in Newport helped shape me into who I am today. After some brutal lessons and movie moments I will still think about when I'm eighty years old on my deathbed, somehow life landed me back in Virginia. With the past three years of my life packed into boxes, and a new mindset tucked safely in my carry-on, I returned home with quiet ease.

I felt brand new.

Smarter.


Sharper. 


The most confident version of me yet.

And she was ready with a baseball mitt for whatever life had to throw next.

Momentarily.

Just when you start feeling steady—
when the path is muddy, but yours—
life throws its biggest curveball yet.

A curveball in the form of two pink lines.


A positive pregnancy test that I never saw coming.


I’ve been close to unexpected pregnancy before but never actually carried the weight of it on my shoulders. I experienced it through friends & people I love. Crying and holding their hand as they make the biggest decision of their lives. 
We made a Pro's & Con's list together. Shopped at Target for baby clothes together. Watched funny movies together as an attempt to lighten the mood after swallowing a painful pill.

As a woman, this is an unavoidable phenomenon. Something we all know too well from the lives of others or from within ourselves. But at the end of the day, we all experience it together.

I thought I knew what it might feel like.


Spoiler: I didn’t.

I’ve always been pro-choice. I’ve played the “What would I do if it happened to me?” game a thousand times. I thought I knew the answer.
 It was easy.

I’d choose me. 100%.

My freedom. My independence. My plans. My life to live.

So why, when I looked down at that spooky little pee stick…Wasn’t “I choose me” the first thought?

Right after a dreamy spring trip to Spain with my girlfriends, I started feeling weird. 
Nausea. Peeing nonstop. A dizzy plane ride. I blamed it on jet lag, hydration, food poisoning—anything but that. 
I had to be convinced to take a test. That’s how sure I was.

You see, at 17, I faced something that rewired my life and decision making skills. 


An inoperable brain tumor.


Two life-saving operations later, I was gifted a second chance. Things became a lot less simple than “right or left” “up or down”. I viewed every life path through the eyes of someone that might not have had the chance to choose. I still do. A life altering experience like that sticks with you.

During that time of MRI’s and endless doctor’s appointments, I learned something else:

I was born with one ovary.

While in a steril and ironically lifeless hosptial room, I was told that if the stars aligned just right, and I really tried, it might happen. “It” being the ability to carry a child.

The news about my lonely ovary made sense to me. My period was like a bad party guest. Always late, a no-show, complained a lot. And when it did make a proper appearance, it trashed my house.

Some women in the same predicament as me have no problem conceiving. As for the others, they stuggle. Since every woman’s body is different, it’s kind of a big unknown.

I took the newly learned info as: Sorry babe, motherhood isn’t in the cards.

So yeah… this? This was a shockwave.

There I was, clutching destiny in the form of a pregnancy test between my fingers in the bathroom of my best friends house. I thought about Steven—my boyfriend. 
We'd only been dating a few months and I kept our relationship very lowkey. I enjoyed the slowburn of it all. I was scared to date again and he demolished every wall I had around me. He was a breath of fresh air.

Once I broke past the “what ifs,” I stayed with what I knew.

I knew I loved him.


I knew he'd be a great father—especially a girl dad.


I knew he didn’t have a mean bone in his body.

Just a quiet, sweet, softness that glowed from within him. Something I had never seen before. Most importantly, I knew he’d hold my hand through it all with no complaints. Because that’s just the kind of person he is.

But how the hell was I going to tell him? He was supposed to be picking me up from the airport in a matter of hours.

Surprise! I brought you a souvenir…it’s about to change the trajectory of your life forever! NBD.

I mean, an unexpected pregnancy really isn’t something I can wrap in a box with a bow. This wasn’t Christmas morning. This was unplanned. This was terrifying.

Flying home immediately after finding out I was pregnant was, in hindsight, both the best and worst thing that could’ve happened. Trapped in the sky with no service, no one to talk to. Just me, a Diet Coke, and the clump of cells now camping out in my uterus.

I wanted to hurl myself out the window because somehow, that felt easier than this. For the first time in my life, I desperately wanted someone else to make the decision for me. But I knew it had to be mine. Fully mine.

I decided I’d wait to tell Steven until I had some sort of game plan. A path. Because while this was our moment, it was ultimately my decision.

Within the first hour of our reunion, I cracked like an egg. I told him everything. We cried. Held each other. Didn’t say much. We didn’t have to—our bodies and tear-streaked faces said it all. Eventually, I pulled my face from his chest, took his hands in mine, and told him—boldly, plainly—that if even a sliver of him didn’t want this baby, then neither did I.

He needed to want to be a father. Not just exist as one.

I delivered the exact speech I’d rehearsed on the plane. Word for word. I needed him to really think about it—not just the cute moments, but the deep, hard, messy parts of raising a human being. I gave the reassurance that there was no pressure, no timer. We’d take it day by day until we could arrive at a decision together.

And Steven—being the women’s rights king that he is—just looked at me and said:

“It’s our decision, but it’s your choice. And I’ll support whatever you decide.”

Damn.

It took a while to get his real opinion, the one buried beneath all that supportiveness. He didn’t want to sway me. But eventually, he admitted he wanted to be a dad. Not just to any child—but to our child. A baby made of our mix-matched DNA, swirled into one impossibly perfect being. Me and him. Us.

And yet… it still took me weeks to decide.

I suffered in silence. Wading through nausea, exhaustion, and hormone-fueled spirals with nobody around me the wiser. Because if I wasn’t going to keep this baby, then no one was ever going to know I’d been pregnant in the first place.

So I puked. And I thought. And I slept. And I cried. And then I puked again.

Each day, my answer changed like I was picking off petals from a daisy.

I’m keeping it.

I’m not.

I am.

I’m not.

I read everything about abortions—not the politics, just the facts. How long did I have before it wouldn’t be an option anymore? Could I really just walk into a clinic and leave my old life untouched?

Could I pretend it never happened?

It was the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make. I wanted to be selfish. I wanted the whole thing to be someone else’s problem. It didn’t even feel real—what do you mean there's a life growing inside me?

I kept asking the sky, the ceiling, the universe:

"Why me? Why now? Why this?"

Most life-altering things don’t ask for permission. They just happen.

But this?

This asked.

This waited.

This choice sat in my hands, scorching hot and impossibly heavy. it was a decision that was only mine to make. It felt like a cruel joke. But at the end of every long, agonizing day, after all the doubt and fear and what-ifs, there was a light.

A persistent, quiet light. The kind that you see when you’re lying back in a dentist chair—head tilted, mouth pried open, surrounded by buzzing sounds, gloved hands and sharp metal instruments. Chaos. Invasion. Discomfort. There was noise all around me—questions, doubts, hypothetical futures I wasn’t ready to face.

But that light? It blinds everything else. It becomes the only thing you can see.

Annoying. Unavoidable. Bright as hell.

A light that reminded me how lucky I was. That people pray for this. Spend thousands trying to get even close. And here I was… ready to throw it all away because I was scared?

Scared of change?

Scared to grow up?

Scared to not be selfish anymore?

It didn’t happen all at once—there was no angel chorus or cloud shaped sign in the sky. It was quiet and gentle.

I woke up one morning, still nauseous, still tired, still confused… but the panic had softened into something else. Curiosity, maybe. I felt different. Like my body had already made the decision before my mind could catch up. Underneath it all, buried beneath the fear and uncertainty, was a truth I hadn’t wanted to say out loud:

What if this is my only chance?

Recent studies show:

11% of women experience infertility.

13.4% of women struggle to conceive.

10-20% of pregnancies end in miscarriage.

Estimated Total Of Women with Fertility Problems:

8.5 million.

The fear had always been there, tucked into the folds of my womanhood like a secret I didn’t want to examine too closely.

And I knew—I just knew—it was a girl.

She hadn’t said a word, hadn’t even grown big enough to be seen on a screen yet, but somehow her presence felt so unmistakably her. Not a theory, not a maybe.

A girl.

My girl.

Made for me.

Not knowing if I could do this again haunted me more than I cared to admit. It wasn't an answer I could find in a fortune cookie. This was a gamble with fate. What if my "little accident" was actually a miracle in disguise? What if my body, in its infinite mystery, had given me something I didn’t even know I’d been holding my breath for?

That fear didn’t make the decision for me—but it did pull a chair up to the table. It reminded me of Ryleigh at seventeen lying on the MRI table. The future isn’t promised.

For some people, “later” never comes.

She started visiting me in my dreams—soft, blurry visions of tiny hands and blonde hair. No name, no face, just the feeling of her. I stopped Googling “how late can you get an abortion in your state” and started searching “What does a baby’s heartbeat sound like at 8 weeks?”

Something deep inside me kicked in. Not maternal instinct exactly, but it was close. Like the truth had been whispering all along, and my brain was finally quiet enough to hear it. This wasn’t just a clump of cells anymore.

That realization destroyed everything I thought I wanted, every fear that had held me hostage. She wasn’t here to ruin my life.

She was here to reshape it.

I didn’t know how I was going to do it—I still don’t, honestly—but I knew I could.

Just like that, the decision was made. Not out of pressure. Not out of fear. But out of love. Out of the deep, aching knowing that I was already hers, and she was already mine. Just a quiet yes that bloomed inside me and never left.

She chose me.

And now, I choose her.

I still remember that first ultrasound. The lights dimmed, I reclined in the chair, and then…there she was. My big little secret lit up on the screen. It felt surreal, like I was watching someone else’s life.

They showed me her hands, her feet, her tiny spine. Steven sat beside me, glowing with pride. I tried to match his smile, but inside, I was numb. Why wasn’t I happy? All I could feel was fear.

This was supposed to be the moment.

Then they played the most earth-shattering, life altering, beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.

Her heartbeat.

That’s when it all hit me. Tears slipped out silently, my throat tightening with each thump.

This is really happening.

At the end, the technician handed me a strip of glossy photos that Steven and I fawned over. I stared at my name in the corner of the images just to make sure there wasn’t a mix up. That the baby in the images did in fact belong to me. When we got home, I did something most parents wouldn’t: I folded the ultrasound photos and tucked them away in a place no one would bother to look at.

My baby, hidden in a sock drawer.

Now when I look at that strip of precious black & white photos, I focus on the creases and what they symbolize. They act as reminders of a younger me: scared, uncertain, and quietly carrying shame.

I thrifted gender-neutral baby clothes, peeked in on the sock drawer from time to time, brainstormed names, and built a Pinterest board for the nursery. Anything to make it feel real—because honestly, I was struggling with my decision.

Maybe it was the shock and trauma of it all but my brain simply could not process what was about to transpire over the next few months. Deep down, I knew what I had to do next.

Tell my parents.

I started with my sister—a warm-up round before the big leagues. I barely got the words out:

"I have something to tell you."

And she just knew. She looked at me, touched my lil bloated belly, and burst into tears. Which, of course, made me do the same. Full-on mush fest. But it gave me the boost of courage I needed so desperately. I can do this.

Now, I’d like to think I’m a pretty solid communicator. But when it comes to saying the big stuff—like Hey, surprise, your daughter’s pregnant—big stuff, my brain turns to oatmeal.

It felt like I was in trouble. Like I got caught sneaking out or backed into the mailbox with my parents car. I had no clue how they’d react. I mean, they love Steven. They love me. So they’d love this baby...

Right?

Still, in that moment, I was sixteen again. Pregnant & Panicking.

Please don’t take my phone away!

The easiest life-giver to tell first: Mom.

I had a postcard from Spain that was intended to be a memento from my travels. Not a pregnancy announcement. It sat blank on my dresser, staring back at me—daring me to write down the biggest secret I’ve ever had to keep. I’d pick it up, put it down, stare at the empty space where the words should go.

How do you fit something so big into so few lines?

"Hi Mom, Spain was beautiful. Also, I’m pregnant."

Eventually, I wrote it. Carefully, nervously, like each letter might explode and handed it off before I could change my mind.

I opened the letter with a tribute—how she was the kind of mother I could only hope to become half of one day. Selfless, steady, devoted. I filled the page with love, building her up before dropping her off a cliff with my very last line.

"Steven & I are expecting a baby."

I watched her read, eyes gliding line to line, misty from my praise, completely unaware of the emotional avalanche on its way. I picked at the skin around my nails, numb to the sting. Giving myself a fresh manicure with blood red nail polish.

Until…

I heard a gasp.

One hand was clamped over her mouth, the other still holding the card. Shaking. I watched as the color of her face changed from Peach to Apple to Plum— a fruit bowl of emotion.

Wait, I think I just invented a new crayon color:

“Unexpected Pregnancy Pink”

My mom couldn’t look at me. Her eyes were squeezed shut. No words came out of her mouth. No sob, no squeak. Just shaking and silence. I panicked and scanned her face like it held the answers.

Was she okay? Was this good? Bad?

Was she even... breathing?

“BREATHE! BREATHE!” I blurted, arms out like I could catch her.

And finally, she looked at me. Barely able to take a breath between her words and said:

“I’m…

just…

so…"

"Happy."

It took about a week after that to tell my dad. The man that gave his entire life away just so my sister and I could have the best one. The thought of disappointing him became my biggest fear.

I followed the path I took previously and wrote it all out on a card.

Accompanied by mom, because there was no way I could do this alone—I sat him down and gifted him the card. Unlike my mom’s “Secrets from Spain” memorabilia, his was neatly tucked inside an envelope. Because handwriting that kind of truth felt too raw to be naked. The envolope made it look more like a proper gift. One that was filled of freshly smeared ink and shaky handwriting.

Dad had a reaction that I was weirdly familiar with already. Except there were no tears, no red fruit bowl face.

Just silence.

Complete and utter silence.

I exchanged glances with my mom. Our eyes darted back and forth between each other, my dad, and the card he was holding. I gave him some time but the longer the pause went on, the more I scrambled.

Right when I was about to break the silence with word vomit, he beat me to it.

Quietly & with a scoff he said:

“You aren’t really having a baby...? Are you?”

There it was. The disappointment I was fearing.

I looked to him nodding my head yes. That’s all I could do. My voice was frozen. I waited for his next response. Something, anything. But no, just more silence.

Is that all he’s going to say?!

There’s a particular kind of heaviness that settles in a room when everyone’s pretending they don’t feel it. The air gets stiff. The smiles stretch a little too far. And suddenly, something as simple as eye contact feels like a microscope aimed straight at your soul.

A single look can say so many things:

How did we get here?


What are we going to do?


Is this really happening?

And the one I dreaded the most:


What will people think?

I wasn't the baby in question—
but I was the question mark. A body holding the answers I didn’t know how to give. A daughter trying to make sense of the version of me they were seeing for the very first time. I didn’t have words. Just shame. Thick, sticky shame that clung to my skin. The kind you feel when you’re the center of attention for all the wrong reasons.

I felt the need to explain myself, justify my choices, clean up the mess before anyone else sees it. I was juggling my words like I was the opening act at the circus.

And still—

Silence.

At that point I was waiting for a plane to fall from the sky and crash directly into our family home because that’s how the conversation felt—catastrophic.

That moment with my dad lingers like a bruise and even though no one said it outright, the silence was loud enough.

The judgment, implied.

The shame? Mine.

All mine.

Eventually mom couldn’t hold the weight of the heavy silence any longer.

She turned to my dad and exclaimed:

“Just wait until you get one look at that precious little baby!”

But in that moment, he already was.

His eyes were on me. His precious baby.

I felt the weight of his gaze, heavy with love.

He stared at me.

I stared at the floor.

Wishing I could melt right into it.

We both needed space after that. I went to the bathroom and did what I was best at during those days. I puked, and then I cried. Fully prepared to never leave that bathroom.

Just give me a pillow and a blanket and I’d convert it into a cozy little studio. Half bath, half mental breakdown.

Could be yours! For the low, low price of your dignity.

Now Accepting Applications.

When I finally mustered up the courage to open that door and make my grand re-appearance, something had shifted. The air felt lighter. My dad greeted me with a softness and directed me to sit down next to him.

Cautiously, I joined the couch.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, clearing his throat like he was trying to sound casual, “I’m happy for you. I support your choice. Please don’t think otherwise.”

Those words crashed into me like a wave. Then just as suddenly, it retreated, pulling all my self imposed doubt back out to the sea with it. Now, I was standing on sand. Free from the shackles of the riptide.

My dad launched into a speech about responsibility. How having a baby means you're tied to them for life. No refunds, no returns.

I tried not to take it personally. Really, I did. But it stung. It felt like he was implying I hadn’t thought this through, like I’d just woke up that morning and decided to be a mother. That couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Trust me, I know I’m “never going to sleep again.” I’ve heard that one on repeat. But what he didn’t know—what no onereally knew—was that I’d spent days, weeks, just existing inside this heavy, aching thought bubble. That I’d turned every belief I had inside out just to land on this decision.

His “not-so-much-a-baby-anymore” baby had a fully formed brain and knew how to use it. Go figure.

We hashed out the politics. He was pro-life. I was pro choice. But we didn’t clash. We both saw my ability to carry as a miracle—a non-negotiable. Apparently. having a baby "out of wedlock" wasn't taboo anymore. (his words.)

Our conversation reassured me that I wasn’t the black sheep of the family.

My baby was wanted & loved.

And so was I.

Now, all that was left... was to tell the world.


No pressure!

It’s a tale as old as time:


Girl moves back home.


Girl gets knocked up.

This was about to be the hometown headline of the year.

Even my friends in Newport were about to share the big surprise. Because the girl they once knew? She was about to be a mom. No more Tequila Tuesdays for her.

I knew my announcement wasn’t going to be a pastel Canva post of a onesie with a due date in cursive.

No baby bottle emojis.

No “we’re expecting!”

This left me with one question:

How do you make an unplanned pregnancy iconic?

You don’t post about it.

You wait.


Slowly pulling the wool over everyone's eyes...

Then—boom—you drop the bomb and pop out with a baby.

My Plan:

1. Find the perfect moment where I’d be too busy to be glued to my phone.

2. Copy and paste the caption I wrote months ago.

3. Hit Post.

4. Immediately throw my phone into airplane mode.

5. Cry?

October 18th, 2024. The due date before my actual due date. Time was crept up on me fast but having an annoucment date held me accountable. I strategically planned the next nine months out. You know, just Virgo things.

On “bomb drop” day, my finger hovered over Post—
and landed on Save to Drafts instead.
 Again.
 And again. The anxiety felt like I was dying.

You know, they should really make a haunted house based around this kind of thing.

Boo! Your ex saw your announcement and is now telling people:

“Thank god it wasn’t me.”

Like it would ever, ever be them.

That will give you the heebie-jeebies for sure!

My fight or flight kicked in and I hit post.

With airplane mode on I became unreachable.

No calls, no notifications. Almost like it never happened.

I didn’t want to know a thing.

Still, it was all I could think about.

Was Instagram on fire?


Had I already lost 1,000 followers?


How was the world reacting to the fact that I kept a whole human a secret for almost nine months?

Beneath my anxiety was a beautiful feeling. Something I didn’t feel much of during this whole ordeal. The secret was out. The weight was lifted and I was free. No more hiding. No more oversized hoodies as camouflage. Now, I could celebrate the life growing inside me out loud. Strangely, I felt a little sad too. Keeping a secret that big was fun. I had a few chuckles out of the baby bomb being right under everyone’s nose the entire time.

I preformed a private magic trick in front of a world who once viewed my life through a glass box.


The white rabbit was finally out of the top hat.

And it was running wild.

It’s scary growing up in a glass box, isn’t it?

you’re watched,

but not known.

Loved,

but not understood.

And it takes years—sometimes decades—

to realize that the most important gaze

is your own.

Every path. 
Every mistake. 
Wrong turn, right choice. 
Every up, down, left, and right—

It all led me to her.

Arlie.

Notes:

• This blog is NOT a campaign to make you "Pro-Life".

• Every woman should have the right to choose and I stand by that.

• This is in no way an attempt to glamorize unexpected pregnancy.

• Motherhood isn't for everyone.

• The circumstances I had belong to me and me only. Everyone lives a life with their own unique conditions.

• If you find yourself walking on the same path as I did, I urge you too deeply, deeply, investigate the layers of your life before making a decision.

• Having an abortion doesn't make you evil. Keeping a baby doesn't make you a saint.

• Comment on my instagram post or DM me a Rabbit emoji If you made it this far on my blog. Thank you so much for reading.

Resources:

• Postpartum & Pregnancy Support Hotline - 1-833-852-6262

• National Abortion Hotline - 1-800-772-9100

• Suicide & Crisis Lifeline - 988

• National Domestic Violence Hotline - 1-800-799-7233