The Longest Nine Months of My Life

By Trinity Barnette

Three Positive Tests and Absolutely No Idea What Was Coming

On January 22, 2026, at around 9 in the morning, my life changed because I felt nauseous.

To be fair, I had been nauseous for days. Something felt off, but pregnancy still wasn’t the first conclusion I jumped to. Then EJ mentioned the possibility of me being pregnant, and apparently that was all it took for my brain to go, Well shit, now we have to know.

My mom was the first person I told. She ordered me a pregnancy test, I took it, and it was positive.

Naturally, I responded to one positive pregnancy test by taking another one.

Positive.

And because apparently two pieces of evidence weren’t enough for me, I took a third.

Also positive.

At that point, I think the universe had made its case pretty clearly. I was pregnant.

What surprises me most looking back is that I was actually excited.

I had never been pregnant before. I had absolutely no idea what the next nine months were going to look like, what pregnancy was actually going to feel like, or how much my entire life was about to change. All I knew was that there was suddenly this completely new thing happening to me, and in the beginning, there was something exciting about that.

Also, I cannot keep a secret to save my life, so the idea that I was going to quietly sit on this information for twelve weeks like some women do was never realistic. My family and closest friends found out pretty quickly.

I called an OB and scheduled my first appointment for February 24. A few days after that appointment, I finally had my first ultrasound.

I was 10 weeks and 6 days pregnant.

And there he was.

I remember being genuinely excited when I saw him on that screen. Until then, pregnancy had mostly existed as three positive tests, nausea, and the knowledge that something was happening inside my body. Seeing an actual baby-shaped little person on an ultrasound made everything feel real in a completely different way.

That was also the day I publicly announced my pregnancy. I specifically wanted to wait until I had an ultrasound picture because obviously I needed photographic evidence for the announcement. That ultrasound eventually became part of my last blog post, The Plot Twist I Didn’t See Coming.

And honestly, “plot twist” was probably the most accurate description possible.

Before this, I had a pretty specific idea of what my twenties were supposed to look like. Finish my bachelor’s degree in Criminal Justice. Go to law school. Become a prosecutor. Build my career. Be with EJ. Have cats.

That was basically it.

I was prepared to be a mother to cats.

A human being was not on the schedule.

But during those first few months, I hadn’t fully processed any of that yet. Pregnancy was still new. It was still something I could be excited about because I didn’t know any better.

What I did know very quickly was that whoever invented the phrase “morning sickness” was a liar.

There was nothing exclusively morning about it.

I was throwing up in the morning, sure, but my body was perfectly willing to ruin the afternoon or middle of the night too. I was nauseous constantly during those first months, and there were plenty of mornings where throwing up just became part of the routine.

And for the record, if there is actually some myth that carrying a boy means you’ll be less sick, Hudson did not receive that memo.

The upside was that I had EJ.

He was unbelievably supportive from the beginning. If I was sitting on the bathroom floor sick in the morning or waking up nauseous in the middle of the night, he was there. He would sit with me, hold me while I threw up, help clean up if I didn’t quite make it where I was supposed to, and bring me a cold rag when I felt overheated.

Pregnancy may not have been kind to me, but my partner was.

By the end of February, we also had another piece of information: according to an early SneakPeek test, I was having a boy.

I had been collecting baby names almost immediately, naturally. My boy-name list eventually came down to Mason, Dominic, and Hudson. My girl-name list was significantly longer, which became completely useless information once my NIPT results came back in March and confirmed that, yes, there was definitely a little boy in there.

Hudson won.

And, in perhaps the most reality-TV-loving origin story possible, I first fell in love with the name because of Madison LeCroy from Southern Charm. Her son’s name is Hudson, I heard it, loved it, and apparently stored it somewhere in my brain until I unexpectedly needed to name a son of my own.

So by March, there I was: visibly developing a bump, constantly nauseous, already gaining weight, carrying a baby boy named Hudson, and still mostly optimistic about what was happening.

Which is funny now.

Because I had absolutely no fucking idea what pregnancy had planned for me.

When the Novelty Wore Off

For a while, pregnancy was still something I could laugh about.

I was nauseous, my clothes were already starting to fit differently, my boobs were making a very aggressive comeback, and my body was clearly no longer operating under its previous terms and conditions — but I was still in that phase where everything felt new enough to be interesting.

Then the novelty wore off.

A huge part of that had nothing to do with my belly and everything to do with my mental health.

Before pregnancy, I had been on multiple medications for years to help manage different parts of my life — a mood stabilizer, antidepressant, ADHD medication, and medication for sleep. Once I became pregnant, I stopped all of them.

And I hated that.

I know some people hear “medication” and immediately think that if you can technically survive without it, then maybe you never really needed it in the first place. That is not how I see it at all.

Could I function without my medications?

Apparently, yes.

Did I want to?

Absolutely the fuck not.

I genuinely believe they help me be a better, more stable, more productive version of myself. Losing that routine while simultaneously dealing with pregnancy felt like somebody removed half my coping mechanisms and then handed me an entirely new list of things to cope with.

The crazy part is that academically, I still did well.

Actually, I did more than well.

I made the Dean’s List during the spring semester and again during the summer semester—all while pregnant and without my Adderall.

And yes, I am going to brag about that.

Because what the fuck.

I was exhausted, nauseous, uncomfortable, increasingly emotional, growing an entire human being, and somehow still turning in assignments and pulling strong grades.

On paper, I was doing great.

Emotionally, though, pregnancy was beginning to wear me down.

Then came the anemia.

Sometime in the spring, I found out my iron levels were low enough that I needed iron infusions. So starting in April, I began going in for treatments.

Eventually, I needed another round in the summer.

Six iron infusions total.

Six.

Because apparently pregnancy was not satisfied with taking my energy, sleep, body, clothes, medications, and ability to go ten minutes without peeing. It also wanted my iron.

Luckily, all of that eventually worked. My iron is doing well now, and I go back for another follow-up in late October.

But at the time, it just felt like another thing.

Another appointment.

Another treatment.

Another reminder that my body had become a full-time group project, except I was doing most of the work.

By June, I think I officially crossed the line from “pregnancy is annoying” into “I fucking hate this.”

My body had changed so much.

I had gained a significant amount of weight. My stomach was getting bigger. None of my normal clothes fit the way I wanted them to. My boobs were huge again—and I say again because I had spent a lot of 2025 focused on fitness and losing weight. As I got smaller, my chest got smaller too.

Pregnancy basically looked at all of that progress and said, “That’s cute.”

Suddenly, I felt huge everywhere.

And it was not just about vanity.

It was the feeling of no longer recognizing myself.

Every week, something changed.

My body felt less and less like mine.

And that is when the feeling of being trapped really started settling in.

Before pregnancy, I had a very specific picture of what my twenties were supposed to look like.

School.

Graduate with my bachelor’s degree in Criminal Justice.

Law school.

Become a prosecutor.

Build a career.

Be with EJ.

Have cats.

That was the plan.

I am a cat mom.

I was not planning on being somebody’s human mother at 20.

And I think one of the hardest parts of pregnancy was realizing that my life had changed before I had fully decided how I felt about that change.

I kept thinking about how differently things might have gone if I had understood pregnancy timing better in the beginning. I knew abortion laws existed. I knew there were restrictions. What I did not fully understand was how pregnancy dating actually worked, how quickly those weeks added up, and how short a six-week window really was.

By the time I had my first ultrasound and understood exactly how far along I was, it felt like the decision had already been made for me.

That feeling stayed with me for a long time.

I loved Hudson.

I was excited about Hudson.

And I still felt trapped.

Those things can exist together.

That is probably one of the biggest things pregnancy taught me—feelings do not have to be neat in order to be real.

You can love your baby and hate pregnancy.

You can be grateful and still be angry.

You can be excited for your child and still grieve the version of your life you thought you were going to have.

June also brought my baby shower.

I had been so excited for it.

By then, I was 28 weeks and one day pregnant, which meant the third trimester had officially begun.

In my head, the shower was supposed to be one of those fun, happy pregnancy milestones.

And it was.

Everyone was supportive. Everybody brought us something. There was a lot of love in that room.

But I was also overwhelmed as hell.

There were only around 15 people there, and looking back, I am so grateful it stayed that small because I genuinely do not think I could have handled a bigger crowd.

Pregnancy had also blessed me with the need to pee approximately every four minutes, so I took full advantage of bathroom breaks whenever I needed a minute away from everybody.

Honestly, frequent urination had finally found its purpose.

By July, things were getting heavier in every sense of the word.

My belly kept growing.

My weight kept climbing.

I think by that point I had already gained around 50 pounds.

And physically, pregnancy was starting to feel less like something I was carrying and more like something I was trapped inside.

Looking back now, I can say, “Maybe it wasn’t as bad as I thought.”

But I only get to say that because it is over.

If you had asked pregnant me in June or July how things were going, I would have told you I was living through the worst experience of my life.

I genuinely used to think the stress was going to kill me.

Not because I wanted to die.

I didn’t.

I just felt so physically uncomfortable, emotionally overwhelmed, and trapped in the situation that I became convinced my body was eventually going to tap out before the pregnancy did.

I would sit there thinking, There is no way a person can be this stressed for this long and just be fine.

Meanwhile, Hudson was apparently doing just fine.

So while I was mentally preparing to perish from the sheer audacity of pregnancy, he was in there growing, thriving, and minding his business.

Typical.

The Finish Line Was Finally in Sight

By August, pregnancy was still physically miserable, but mentally it started feeling a little different.

For the first time, I could actually see the finish line.

Hudson was coming soon.

That realization helped a lot because there is a huge difference between being miserable at 20-something weeks and being miserable when you know you are only a few weeks away from never being pregnant again.

I was still uncomfortable as hell, though.

The pelvic pain was probably one of the worst parts of the third trimester.

My stomach had gotten so heavy that it felt like my body was constantly fighting gravity. Walking hurt. Standing hurt. Existing for too long hurt.

Eventually, I got a Momcozy pregnancy support belt that helped lift some of the weight of my stomach, and that thing was doing the Lord’s work.

I genuinely do not know how I would have gotten through those last weeks without it.

Sleep was also basically nonexistent.

I had already struggled with insomnia before pregnancy, but being heavily pregnant added a whole new level of nonsense.

I could not get comfortable.

I would move from one side to the other.

Then I would have to pee.

Then I would finally settle down and Hudson would start moving.

Then something would hurt.

Then I would have to pee again.

It was a nightly cycle of bullshit.

And somewhere around that point, pregnancy also started sending me to the hospital for reasons that were apparently designed specifically to stress me out.

At the end of July, I thought my water had broken.

So naturally, I went to the hospital thinking maybe something serious was happening.

Turns out my water had not broken.

I had an infection.

Actually, technically, there was more than one thing going on, but I think I am going to keep some of the details between me, my medical chart, and God.

The important part is that I got treated, everything cleared up, and Hudson was fine.

By August, I was also making one of the biggest decisions of the entire pregnancy.

I switched OBs.

At 33 weeks.

Which is late as hell.

But I did not like the OB group I was with, and I definitely did not want to give birth at the hospital they delivered at.

I had already spent months feeling like so much of pregnancy was happening outside of my control.

I was not about to also give birth somewhere I did not feel comfortable.

So I switched.

And that decision ended up being one of the best things I did.

My new OB delivered at Sarasota Memorial Hospital in Venice.

SMH Venice will absolutely be getting their flowers later because once we get to the induction, they were incredible.

But before the induction came one more hurdle.

Cervical checks.

At the end of August, I had my first one.

I knew people said they were uncomfortable.

I did not realize they meant “this might emotionally ruin your afternoon.”

It hurt so badly that I cried.

Like really cried.

Afterward, my OB warned me that if I wanted to be induced, cervical checks were going to be part of the process.

And for a brief period of time, that was enough to make me rethink induction completely.

I started thinking maybe I should just wait for spontaneous labor.

That plan lasted about five minutes.

I still wanted the baby out.

So EJ and I came up with a better strategy.

The next time I needed a cervical check, he would be right there with me.

He held my hand, talked me through it, reminded me to breathe, and gave me something else to focus on besides the pain.

And it worked.

The second one went much better.

Induction was officially back on the table.

After that, we waited.

And waited.

And waited.

For weeks, we knew the induction was supposed to happen around 39 weeks, but we did not have final confirmation from the hospital.

That drove me insane.

September was easier than June in some ways because I knew pregnancy was almost over.

But it was also harder because I had absolutely no patience left.

I knew the ending was coming.

I just did not know exactly when.

That made me restless as hell.

Every day felt like:

Is it today?

Tomorrow?

Am I going into labor tonight?

Is this a contraction?

Did my water break?

Why does everything hurt?

Can somebody please just give me a DATE?

Eventually, the hospital did.

The day before the induction.

September 11.

I would be exactly 39 weeks pregnant.

Which meant that after almost nine months of nausea, weight gain, iron infusions, pelvic pain, insomnia, appointments, anxiety, body changes, and repeatedly wondering why human reproduction had to be designed this way, the end was finally scheduled.

There was just one problem.

I had absolutely no idea what Pitocin was about to do to me.

Pitocin Is the Devil

We got to Sarasota Memorial Hospital in Venice early on the morning of September 11.

At that point, I was exactly 39 weeks pregnant and more than ready for this entire experience to be over.

Unfortunately, my cervix did not share my enthusiasm.

When they checked me, I was only 1 centimeter dilated, 50% effaced, and at -3 station.

Basically, Hudson was still pretty comfortable in there.

So we started with Cervidil, a vaginal insert containing dinoprostone that is used to help ripen the cervix and get labor moving.

And by “started with,” I mean I had to have that thing inserted and then sit with it for 12 hours.

The insertion itself hurt like hell.

At that point, I was already very over cervical-related activities, so starting induction with another painful vaginal procedure felt incredibly on brand for pregnancy.

Then we waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

The Cervidil did not really do much.

So the next step was Cytotec, another medication used to help soften the cervix and encourage labor.

The original plan was four doses, spaced about four hours apart.

I made it through three.

Then I decided I was done being patient.

I wanted Pitocin.

I wanted things to move faster.

I wanted the baby out.

And I really need everyone to understand that I did not know what the fuck I was asking for.

Pitocin started.

At first, I was fine.

Then the contractions started picking up.

Then they picked up some more.

Then apparently my uterus decided it had something to prove.

I would be crying one minute, then calm down, then start crying again.

At some point, I started telling EJ that we were idiots for doing this and asking him why he let me get pregnant in the first place.

Which was obviously very productive considering we were already 39 weeks into the situation.

There was no undo button.

The contractions were getting stronger and stronger, and I was genuinely losing it.

Looking back now, it is funny.

At the time, I was fighting for my life.

Then my mucus plug came out.

And I mean really came out.

There was mucus everywhere.

On me.

On the hospital bed.

Just an absolutely glamorous childbirth moment.

I immediately thought my water had broken.

They tested the fluid.

Nope.

Not my water.

But when they checked my cervix, I was finally at 5 centimeters.

Progress.

Not long after that, I started feeling like I had to pee constantly.

I kept getting up and going to the bathroom over and over again.

At some point, they believe my water actually did break while I was sitting on the toilet.

And that is when things got really bad.

The contractions after my water broke were on another level.

I had already thought I was in pain.

Apparently my uterus had been holding back.

At that point, I wanted the epidural.

Immediately.

Actually, I wanted it yesterday.

I remember crying when they told me I had to finish getting a bag of fluids first before anesthesia could do it.

That felt deeply disrespectful.

I was sweating.

Shaking.

Crying.

Contracting.

And somebody was telling me I had to wait for fluids.

Absolutely not.

By the time the anesthesiologist finally came in, I was so shaky that I genuinely do not know how I stayed still.

EJ helped.

He held me steady, talked to me, and helped me get through the placement.

And then finally—

Relief.

Beautiful, beautiful numbness.

They told me I would probably fall asleep.

And fuck yes, I did.

I was exhausted.

My body had spent hours being put through the Pitocin version of psychological warfare, and the second the pain stopped, I was gone.

When I woke up, I genuinely thought I had been asleep for hours.

Apparently, it had only been about 20 or 30 minutes.

I woke up numb and confused.

Then I felt something.

Pressure.

A very specific kind of pressure.

I looked at the nurse and told her I felt like I needed to poop.

Because of course I did.

I had just survived all of that, gotten an epidural, finally fallen asleep, and now apparently my next emergency was going to be taking a shit while numb from the waist down.

Except that was not what was happening.

They checked me.

I had gone from around 5 centimeters to fully dilated.

Hudson’s head was right there.

I was about to have a baby.

So apparently the urge to poop was not, in fact, about poop.

It was my son.

At that point, everything moved fast.

After what felt like an eternity of induction, suddenly there was no waiting anymore.

It was time to push.

And somehow, after all of that—

I pushed fewer than 15 times.

Then, at 9:11 PM on Saturday, September 12, 2026, Hudson Emmanuel Barnette-Toro was born.

Six pounds, fourteen ounces.

Twenty inches long.

And just like that, the longest nine months of my life were over.

And Then There Was Hudson

The second Hudson was born, everything changed.

Not in some cheesy, movie-scene way where suddenly all nine months of misery disappeared and I forgot every complaint I had ever made.

Absolutely not.

I remembered all of it.

But suddenly there was an actual baby in front of me.

My baby.

I remember crying, but not because I was sad or scared. It was more like shock mixed with happiness mixed with the realization that the little person I had spent nine months complaining about was finally here.

He was real.

Hudson Emmanuel Barnette-Toro was born at 9:11 PM on September 12, 2026.

He weighed 6 pounds, 14 ounces and was 20 inches long.

His Apgar scores were 9 and 9.

No NICU.

No major complications.

No episiotomy.

The delivery itself was considered a normal spontaneous vaginal delivery.

Which sounds incredibly calm and civilized for something that involved me screaming through Pitocin contractions and accusing my boyfriend of allowing this tragedy to happen.

I did have a second-degree perineal tear and a smaller first-degree labial tear, both of which had to be repaired.

Very fun.

Very glamorous.

Exactly how I pictured motherhood beginning.

The placenta came out normally, blood loss was within the expected range, and medically, everything went well.

Hudson was healthy.

I was healthy.

And that mattered more than anything.

I was also in shock.

There is something so strange about spending months feeling a baby move inside of you and then suddenly seeing them on the outside.

Like—

Oh.

That was YOU in there?

That entire time?

You were the one kicking me in the ribs and making me pee every five minutes?

Interesting.

And because apparently I am incapable of experiencing a major life event without also immediately thinking about astrology, I would also like everyone to know that Hudson is a Virgo sun, Libra moon, and Aries rising.

Do with that information what you will.

I know I did.

The hours after birth were strange because labor was over, but my body clearly had not received the memo that the event had ended.

For a few hours, I could not pee on my own.

So eventually, they had to use a catheter.

Not exactly the glamorous first night of motherhood people put on Instagram.

By the next morning, though, I was finally able to pee normally again.

That alone felt like an accomplishment.

But the physical soreness was intense.

Everything down there felt swollen, bruised, and beaten up.

And honestly, nobody really prepares you for how sore you can be after a vaginal birth.

People warn you about labor.

People warn you about contractions.

People warn you about pushing.

But nobody really looks you in the eye and says:

By the way, afterward, your entire pelvic region might feel like it just lost a UFC fight.

That would have been useful information.

Still, I had Hudson.

And looking at him was strange in the best way.

Because no matter how much I hated pregnancy, no matter how trapped I felt, no matter how many times I said I could not do it anymore—

There he was.

The actual person at the end of all of it.

And somehow, he was perfect.

The Part Nobody Warns You About

Labor gets all the attention.

Contractions. Pushing. Epidurals. Water breaking. The dramatic moment the baby is born.

And then everyone kind of skips over the part where your body has to recover from what just happened.

That part is insane.

The first few days postpartum, I was so sore that standing for too long felt like a task. Sitting hurt. Getting up hurt. Sneezing hurt.

Basically, my lower half was offended by movement in general.

The tears and stitches definitely contributed to that. I had a second-degree perineal tear and a small labial tear, so everything down there felt swollen, bruised, and just generally traumatized.

And then there was the bathroom situation.

My first postpartum poop scared the hell out of me.

Not because it ended up being terrible, but because mentally, I was convinced I was about to undo every stitch in my body by trying to poop.

Very rational.

Very calm.

Very postpartum.

Eventually, it happened.

And honestly?

It was not nearly as bad as I had built it up to be.

By day six, I had done it a few times already, so the fear was starting to wear off.

Peeing was its own adventure too.

I had already needed a catheter after birth because I could not pee for a few hours, and even after I came home, there were a couple of times where my bladder apparently forgot how to do its job.

Luckily, that resolved too.

Then, at four days postpartum, I got another surprise.

One of my stitches came out.

In the middle of the night.

Because apparently postpartum recovery likes drama.

I noticed it, took a picture, and immediately sent it to my OB because I was absolutely not about to sit there and guess whether part of my vagina was falling apart.

The next day, she told me it should be fine.

The stitches are dissolvable anyway, and because I was not having any abnormal bleeding outside of normal postpartum lochia, it did not need to be repaired.

Huge relief.

Because if anyone had told me I needed to go back and have that area stitched again while fully aware of what was happening?

Absolutely not.

Take me out back.

Luckily, it never came to that.

The biggest thing I have noticed is that every day feels a little better.

The first few days were rough.

Like, really rough.

Everything felt sore and swollen, and I was constantly aware that I had just pushed a human being out of my body.

Now, six days postpartum, I can actually feel the difference.

I am still healing.

I am still sore.

I am definitely not back to normal.

But I am better than I was on day one.

And honestly, that alone feels encouraging.

Postpartum has also been a reminder that the end of pregnancy is not really the end of anything.

You do not give birth and suddenly get your body back.

You trade one physical experience for another.

Your belly is different.

Your hormones are everywhere.

Your breasts are doing things whether you asked them to or not.

You are bleeding.

You are sore.

You are exhausted.

You are learning how to take care of a newborn while also trying to remember that you are still a person who needs to recover too.

And that has probably been one of the biggest adjustments for me.

I spent nine months waiting for pregnancy to end.

I thought once Hudson was born, I would finally feel like myself again.

And I will.

Eventually.

But I am realizing now that there is a whole recovery period in between.

So for now, I am giving my body time.

It carried Hudson for nine months.

It survived induction.

It survived Pitocin.

It pushed him out.

It tore.

It got stitched back together.

It got me home.

And every day, it is healing a little more.

I think that deserves some patience.