My Natural Pregnancy Journey: From Hope to Holding My Miracle Baby

Motherhood is often painted as a magical journey—and it truly is. But behind every glowing bump and baby shower, there’s a world of quiet courage, emotional whirlwinds, and unwavering faith. No one really talks about the messy middle—the anxiety before every scan, the sleepless nights filled with “what ifs,” or the sheer strength it takes to surrender when things don’t go as planned.

This is My Natural Pregnancy Journey: From Hope to Holding My Miracle Baby. It wasn’t easy, and it definitely wasn’t picture-perfect. But it was real, raw, and nothing short of miraculous.

The journey began with joy—the kind that takes over your whole being when you see those two pink lines. It felt surreal, almost like a dream come true. But just as quickly, the worries started to creep in. Complications soon became part of the story—words like “mild ventriculomegaly,” “intrahepatic cholestasis,” and “amniocentesis” entered the vocabulary when I had barely processed the fact that I was carrying life.

There were days filled with hope and others drenched in fear. Every scan came with a prayer. Every doctor’s visit felt like an emotional gamble. And yet, through it all, a quiet voice inside whispered, “Just hold on.”

This story isn’t just about the destination—it’s about the strength found in the journey. About believing in your body even when it feels fragile. About trusting the process even when it feels unfair. And above all, about never letting go of hope.

“Hope carried me when fear tried to take over—and that’s the real miracle.”

Living with PCOS: The Silent Struggle

If you’ve ever been diagnosed with PCOS (Polycystic Ovary Syndrome), you probably know the emotional toll it takes. The endless cycle of irregular periods, hormonal imbalance, and the looming fear of infertility—it chips away at your self-esteem quietly, steadily. Every gynecologist visit ends with a reminder that conceiving might be difficult, and that fertility treatments may be needed someday.

I was no exception to this rollercoaster. However, somewhere deep within, I chose to focus not on conceiving but simply on healing. I began a gentle, daily yoga practice—not with an agenda, but as an offering to my body. I just wanted to feel better, emotionally and physically. Little did I know, this simple intention was about to shift my entire life.

How Yoga Transformed My Body and Mind

Yoga was not just a workout for me—it became a sanctuary. Each asana felt like a prayer. The flow of breath with movement was deeply meditative. I felt my body opening up, softening, and healing from within. Slowly, the dark clouds of anxiety began to part, allowing rays of calm and clarity to shine through.

It wasn’t about weight loss or picture-perfect poses. It was about reclaiming control over my health. My mind stopped fighting my body, and my body responded with gratitude. I felt stronger, more peaceful, and unknowingly, more fertile.

“Healing doesn’t mean the damage never existed. It means the damage no longer controls our lives.”

When Symptoms Whispered: Something Was Different

One morning, I woke up feeling strangely off. I was more tired than usual, even after a good night’s sleep. I had this odd metallic taste in my mouth. My mood was swinging like a pendulum.

I dismissed it all as PMS (Premenstrual Syndrome ) initially. But deep down, there was this curious whisper inside me—could it be?
With a doubt in head, I took a pregnancy test. I watched the kit like it held my destiny. But the result was negative. My heart sank. I tried to brush it off, but something felt too different to ignore.

I decided to consult my gynecologist. She listened intently, examined me, and offered a glimmer of hope. She asked me to take prenatal vitamins and said, “Let’s wait ten more days. If you’re pregnant, it’ll show up then.”

The Faint Line That Changed Everything

Those ten days were some of the longest of my life. I found myself praying, dreaming, imagining. I tried not to hope too much, but hope is stubborn—it grows even in the darkest corners.

When I tested again after ten days, my eyes caught something—faint, almost invisible—a second line. Was it real? I blinked. Looked again. It was still there. A faint positive. My heart raced.

I rushed to my husband, and together we held that tiny strip as though it were gold. With cautious excitement, we returned to the doctor. She ordered a beta HCG blood test for confirmation. Waiting for the report was like waiting for the universe to speak.

And when it did, it said, “Yes.”

The First Trimester: Joy Meets Nausea

We were ecstatic. Sharing the news with our families brought tears, laughter, and pure celebration. My heart swelled with love every time I imagined a little soul growing inside me.

But soon enough, morning sickness came knocking—and not lightly. The nausea was relentless. Smells I once loved—like spices, coffee, and even perfumes—became unbearable. I couldn’t step into the kitchen. I lived on dry toast, coconut water, and anything bland. Food was no longer comfort. It was a challenge. Each day felt like a hurdle race. I would literally count down the days to the end of the first trimester, hoping for relief. 

Despite feeling constantly nauseous and exhausted, the day of my first pregnancy scan had finally arrived. I was a bundle of nerves—equal parts anxious and excited. My heart was pounding as we entered the scan room, not knowing what to expect.

And then it happened. That very first glimpse. The screen lit up, and there it was—a tiny, flickering presence. Just a small gestational sac for now, but it was real. Our baby. A little life forming quietly inside me. The doctor gently explained everything and gave us the due date. I was completely overwhelmed.

An Unexpected Twist: The Lower Abdominal Pain

Just when I thought I could brave the nausea, a sharp pain struck my lower abdomen. It wasn’t normal. It wasn’t bearable. Panic crept in.
We rushed to the hospital. 

The doctor, after some tests, suspected a urinary tract infection and ordered a urine culture test. The results confirmed it. UTIs are common in pregnancy, I was told, due to the changes in hormones and the growing uterus pressing on the bladder. 

With prescribed antibiotics and plenty of fluids, I began to recover. But it shook me. This wasn’t going to be an easy pregnancy. I realized that early on.

The Emotional Ride of Our NT Scan 

Finally, the day arrived for our second big scan—the Nuchal Translucency (NT) scan, done around the 11th week of pregnancy. I had read all about it, how this particular ultrasound helps assess the risk of chromosomal abnormalities like Down syndrome.

As we sat in the waiting area, my mind was racing. “What if something wasn’t right?” When it was finally our turn. The sonographer gently moved the probe across my belly, and there was our baby again—this time, bigger, clearer, and more alive than ever before. I could see tiny arms and legs moving, a little heartbeat flickering away like a drumbeat of hope.

And then, came the words we were longing to hear: “Everything looks normal.” I could finally breathe again. Relief washed over me like a wave. Our baby was healthy.

The Second Trimester: Light After the Storm

As I stepped into the 13th week, things started to shift. The nausea faded like a bad dream. I had more energy. My bump began to show. I could eat again without dreading it.

Food tasted divine. I craved everything from chocolate pastries to street-side chaats. I laughed louder. I smiled more. I began buying maternity clothes as my belly started to grow and I could not fit into my old clothes anymore. I started journaling every little moment.

This was the golden phase they talk about, and I was soaking in every bit of it. I’d talk to my bump, play music, and imagine holding my baby. Little did I know that a thunderstorm was silently brewing ahead.

The Fifth-Month Shock: A Scan That Shattered Us

It was finally time for our fifth-month anomaly scan at 19th week of pregnancy—a milestone we had been looking forward to with so much excitement.
But within minutes, I noticed the radiologist’s face change. Her cheerful demeanor faded. Then came the words that shattered my world.

“There are multiple echogenic foci in the baby’s heart ventricles… and possibly colpocephaly.”

I blinked. What did that even mean? The terms felt heavy—cold, clinical, and terrifying. She explained that colpocephaly is a rare brain condition. One that could potentially lead to severe developmental delays. My heart sank. I felt numb. I couldn’t stop the tears welling up in my eyes.

Our gynecologist read the scan carefully, then looked up with a gentleness in her eyes but gravity in her voice.
“This could be serious,” she said softly. “Colpocephaly can lead to developmental delays, seizures, and lifelong difficulties. There is no cure, but management is possible with therapy and support.”

And then came the hardest part to hear—“You need to think this through. Medical termination of pregnancy is an option in such cases. It’s legally allowed at any stage if the condition is critical. You’d still need to go through the process—either a vaginal delivery or a C-section. It’s emotionally and physically challenging.”

I felt shattered. Broken. How could something that was supposed to be so beautiful turn so terrifying in the blink of an eye?

But she gently added, “Let’s not panic yet. Let’s confirm things. I want you to go for a few more tests—NIPT and Karyotype—to rule out chromosomal abnormalities. And please consult a fetal medicine specialist. They’ll help us get clarity before any decisions are made.”

That evening, with trembling hands and tear-streaked cheeks, we booked an urgent appointment with one of the best fetal medicine experts in the city. Our hearts were heavy, but we clung to a thread of hope. The days that followed were some of the longest and hardest of my life.

Second Opinion: A Ray of Hope

The fetal medicine specialist carefully moved the probe over my growing belly, eyes locked onto the screen with quiet intensity. And then, he finally spoke—his voice calm but reassuring.

“This isn’t colpocephaly,” he said.

For the first time in days, I felt a flicker of relief. He explained that the baby’s brain ventricles were slightly enlarged—measuring 8.5 mm on the right and 8.9 mm on the left—but still within the safe limit. “It’s called mild ventriculomegaly,” he said. Not uncommon, but not something to ignore either. He reassured us that many babies with this condition are born perfectly healthy, but it needed monitoring.

“As for the tiny white spots we saw on the heart—echogenic foci—he explained they’re often seen in ultrasounds and are usually harmless.” Still, the next 15 days would be crucial. He recommended we come back for a follow-up to see if the ventricles had changed.

We walked out of the clinic with mixed emotions—relieved, yet cautious. The fear hadn’t disappeared, but it was now wrapped in a fragile blanket of hope. And sometimes, hope is all you need to keep going.

The Hardest Test: Amniocentesis

Two weeks later, we again visited the fetal medicine unit—this time, a little more anxious than before. The doctor began the scan with quiet concentration, and soon shared the update: the size of the right lateral ventricle in our baby’s brain had slightly increased to 9.5 mm, while the left had decreased a bit to 8 mm. It was a small shift, but enough to keep the concern alive.

The doctor explained gently that while these measurements were still within borderline limits, to rule out the possibility of a more severe form of ventriculomegaly, they recommended we proceed with amniocentesis—a diagnostic test where a sample of amniotic fluid is extracted from the womb to check for genetic or chromosomal abnormalities.

I had read online that amniocentesis was usually just a mildly uncomfortable procedure. But for me, it was so much more than that. The moment they applied the cold gel to my abdomen, I felt a wave of fear rush through me. And then I saw the needle. Long, Sharp, Intimidating. As it pierced through my skin, I winced. The pressure, the strange tugging sensation deep inside, the sterile air of the room—I felt it all too intensely. 

Tears rolled down my cheeks uncontrollably. I couldn’t stop crying, not only from physical pain alone, but from emotional exhaustion and fear. Once the sample was collected, they injected me a painkiller and kept me under observation for a while. My abdomen ached, but it was my soul that hurt more

The collected fluid was sent for Whole Exome Sequencing, Chromosomal Microarray Analysis, and a TORCH Panel Test—a full spectrum of diagnostics to understand what was truly going on. Meanwhile, my earlier NIPT and Karyotype reports arrived—and thankfully, both came back normal. That gave us a little bit of hope to hold on to in the chaos.

Before leaving the clinic, I was given strict instructions to remain on complete bed rest for the next 48 hours.

And then began the longest wait of our lives—thirty excruciating days. A full month of uncertainty. But somehow, we held on—to each other, to faith, to the tiniest sliver of hope that our baby was okay. We tried to breathe. We tried to believe.

And we waited..

The Unexpected Itch: A New Complication

As if the emotional toll wasn’t enough, I began experiencing a strange itch on my palms and soles. It intensified at night. I couldn’t sleep. It was maddening. Back to the gynecologist we went. She immediately suspected Intrahepatic Cholestasis of Pregnancy (ICP)—a liver condition that can be risky for the baby.

A liver function test confirmed it. My liver enzymes SGOT and SGPT were very high. The diagnosis stung, but at least we had answers. She prescribed medication and a special low-fat diet. I was told I’d be monitored closely till the end of pregnancy. The itching subsided a bit, but never completely left me. Still, I was more focused on that one report—the genetic test. That was our biggest question mark.

The Results Arrive: A Breath of Relief

After what felt like an eternity, the results of the Chromosomal Microarray Analysis, TORCH Panel Test and Whole Exome Sequencing finally arrived.
“We have the results,” she said. “Doctor asked us for final visit .”

We walked into the scan room again—hearts pounding, palms sweaty, silently hoping for some clarity, some peace. By now, the routine of these visits had become familiar, but the anxiety never really faded.

This time, the measurements came in—the left lateral ventricle remained at 8 mm, while the right had slightly increased to 10.6 mm. It was still considered borderline, technically falling under the “mild” category, but any increase at all felt like another storm cloud.

I looked at the doctor with searching eyes, trying to read his expression before he even said a word. And then, finally, he spoke—with a reassuring smile that began to melt the ice around my heart.

“There’s no reason to worry,” he said gently. “Your genetic reports are completely clear. That’s a very strong indicator. The chance of this developing into something serious is extremely, extremely low.”

I felt my shoulders relax just a little. He went on to explain that ventriculomegaly is often harmless, especially in its mild form. In many cases, it doesn’t progress. Sometimes, it even resolves on its own before the baby is born. 

“We’ve seen many babies born with mild ventriculomegaly who grow up perfectly fine,” he said. “Some may have a slight delay in motor milestones, but with the right guidance and early intervention, they catch up beautifully.”

He broke it down further to calm our racing minds—“mild ventriculomegaly ranges from 10 to 12 mm, moderate from 13 to 15 mm, and anything 16 mm or above is considered severe. Ours was sitting right on the edge of mild, but not crossing into dangerous territory.”

The words I’d been silently craving to hear finally came— “There is no need to consider this a high-risk pregnancy anymore. You can and should continue with your pregnancy, and focus on welcoming your baby with joy, not fear.”

Tears welled up in my eyes—not of fear this time, but of relief. After weeks of endless scans, sleepless nights, and emotional rollercoasters, we finally had a moment of peace. That day, as we left the clinic, I wasn’t just carrying a baby—I was carrying courage, strength, and a renewed belief that everything was going to be okay.

We shared the news with our families. Everyone celebrated the power of faith, love, and resilience. I felt like I had passed through fire and emerged stronger.

The Final Stretch: Third Trimester and Nesting Mode

The third trimester brought with it a new mix of emotions. Excitement, nervousness, fatigue, but above all—a growing sense of wonder. I was finally visibly pregnant. But pregnancy with Intrahepatic Cholestasis was still tricky. The itching returned in waves, especially at night. It was maddening at times—I would wake up scratching my feet till they were sore. But I held on.

My doctor kept a close eye on me with regular scans and blood work. We reduced fat intake in my meals, increased fiber, and continued liver-supportive medications. I also stayed active with daily walks. Some days were harder than others. 

I missed indulging in all the cravings—I couldn’t eat spicy chaats or my favorite chocolate pastries. But each sacrifice felt like a small promise to my baby. “I’ll do anything for you,” I would whisper as I sipped my bland khichdi.

Nesting instincts kicked in big time. I spent hours listening devotional music and chant mantras. And yet… the anxiety never completely went away. What if something still went wrong? That’s when I turned inward again. I journaled. I meditated. I visualized a healthy, smiling baby in my arms. 

And I let the divine take over.

“Let go of what you can’t control, and focus on the love you can give.”

The Final Scan: Glimpses of Hope

At 36 weeks, we had our final growth scan. I held my breath as the radiologist checked everything. “Ventricles look stable. The size of right lateral ventricle decreased to 8 mm now. Ventriculomegaly resolved on its own.” he said with a nod. I exhaled in relief.

The baby was growing well, moving actively, and everything else looked perfect. After months of suspense, we finally had a green signal. We looked at our doctor with hopeful eyes and asked, almost pleadingly, “Can we try for a normal delivery?” She smiled gently but her expression turned serious. “We’ll definitely try,” she said, “but because of your cholestasis, I can’t promise anything. We have to be prepared for all possibilities.”

I nodded, trying to be brave, but inside, a mix of fear and surrender washed over me. I knew then—I had to let go of control, trust the process, and mentally prepare myself for whatever path my baby chose to arrive in this world.

The countdown had begun…

The Big Day Arrives: Labor Begins

It was a quiet night. The clock had just struck 2 AM when I woke up with a strange cramping in my lower abdomen. It wasn’t sharp pain—it was more like waves. I tried to ignore it, telling myself it was probably braxton hicks contractions. But within an hour, the intensity increased. My instincts kicked in. “I think it’s time,” I whispered, my voice shaking with excitement and nerves.

We rushed to the hospital. The staff quickly admitted me and hooked me up to monitors. Contractions were coming regularly now. I had been in labor for over 12 hours. Each contraction came like a crashing wave, stronger and fiercer than the last, pulling me into a space where time blurred and all I could do was breathe and hold on. 

The pain was unlike anything I had ever felt—raw, relentless, and rising with every passing minute. I kept telling myself, Just a little more. You’re almost there. But just when we thought we were close, the doctor walked in with a serious expression. “The baby has passed meconium,” she said gently. “We need to go in for an emergency C-section. We can’t take any risks now.”

In that instant, everything shifted. My heart sank. All the hours of labor, all the pain—it didn’t matter anymore. My only thought was, Get my baby out safely. Do whatever it takes. I was wheeled into the OT with tears in my eyes and prayers on my lips. It wasn’t the birth I imagined, but I knew—this was the birth my baby needed.

The Birth of a Miracle: Meeting Atharv

The operation room was cold and sterile, but the warmth of anticipation wrapped around me like a blanket. I was given spinal anesthesia. My lower body went numb, but my mind was racing. I stared at the white ceiling, silently chanting prayers. 

And then, in the next few minutes that would forever remain etched in my soul, I heard the sound I had been longing to hear:

A loud, strong, beautiful cry. My baby had arrived.

The nurse brought him over and gently placed him near my face. Our eyes met for the first time. His tiny face, those pink cheeks, his curious eyes—all of it melted every bit of pain and fear I had ever felt.

“You were worth every tear, every test, every prayer.”

We named him Atharv—a name rooted in strength, wisdom, and healing.

Recovery after a C-section: One painful step at a time

They say the real struggle begins after delivery—and oh, how true that is, especially after a C-section. The moment I was shifted from the OT to my ward, the anesthesia was still wearing off, and my entire body began to shiver uncontrollably. 

I wasn’t cold, but my body felt like it was in shock. My teeth were chattering, and I couldn’t stop trembling. The nurses kept wrapping me in warm blankets, but nothing helped. It was scary—like my body was no longer mine.

And then came the thirst. My mouth was so dry. But I wasn’t allowed to drink even a single sip of water. Not for hours. I kept licking my lips, silently begging for just a drop. Every now and then, the nurse would come and give me a tiny spoonful of water—just enough to wet my tongue. I remember closing my eyes and savoring those few drops like they were nectar.

But nothing could prepare me for what came next—the first attempt to move. The nurses gently said, “We need to help you sit up now.” I nodded, but as soon as they tried lifting me, a sharp wave of pain shot through my abdomen. I gasped. It felt like my stitches were tearing open. My entire body screamed in protest. I couldn’t sit. I couldn’t move. Even the smallest shift in position felt like a mountain crumbling inside me.

Then came the moment I dreaded—they removed the catheter and said I needed to try and walk to the washroom. I looked at them in disbelief. Walk? Already? I could barely breathe without hurting.

Two nurses held me on either side as I tried to stand. My legs felt like jelly. My back was bent, my incision throbbed, and my whole body shook with effort. Every step was agony. When I finally reached the bathroom, I burst into tears—not just from pain, but from the sheer overwhelm of it all.

Nobody tells you how brutal those first few postpartum hours can be. You’ve just birthed a human—your body’s torn, stitched, and exhausted—and yet, you’re expected to move, pee, feed, and recover like it’s all part of the plan.

It wasn’t easy. In fact, it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But I did it. One painful step at a time

Postpartum: A New Journey Begins

While the birth was beautiful, postpartum recovery was intense. My body ached in ways I didn’t expect. Breastfeeding was painful at first. The hormonal rollercoaster made me cry for no reason.

But amidst the exhaustion, there was a love I had never known before. Atharv’s tiny fingers wrapping around mine felt like the whole universe fitting into my palm.

Each night, as I rocked him to sleep, I would whisper stories of how he came into this world. How he chose me. How we fought together.

Reflections: What I’ve Learned from This Journey

Looking back, this pregnancy journey has changed me in ways I never imagined. Here are a few things I’ve learned:

– Trust your body: Even with PCOS and complications, our bodies are capable of incredible miracles.

– Don’t underestimate yoga and breathwork: They not only helped me conceive but also gave me emotional strength during the toughest times.

– Listen to your intuition: That faint whisper of “something’s different” was real.

– Medical science and faith can coexist: I took every test, followed every protocol—but I also prayed, meditated, and leaned on divine strength.

– Support matters: My husband and family were my pillars. Don’t be afraid to lean on your people.

Final Words: Hope for Every Heart

If you’re a woman navigating the stormy seas of infertility, or a complicated pregnancy—I see you. I’ve been where you are. The fear, the frustration, the endless questions, the waiting… it can all feel like too much. But please, from one heart to another—don’t lose hope.

Your journey may not look like the glossy pages of parenting magazines or the curated posts on social media. It might be messy, emotional, and full of detours. But that doesn’t make it any less real. Any less sacred. Any less beautiful.

Take your time. Let yourself feel. Cry if you need to. Laugh when you can. But don’t ever compare your timeline to someone else’s. Your path is unique. And it’s leading you somewhere special.

Lean into yoga or any practice that helps you reconnect with your body—it’s not broken, it’s just asking for a little more love and patience. Listen to your gut. Ask every question, even the ones you think are silly. Get that second opinion. Surround yourself with people who lift you up. And most importantly—hold onto faith like it’s your anchor in the storm.

Because this body of yours? It’s capable of miracles. Of growing life. Of surviving heartbreak. Of starting again. Of rising—again and again.

“There is no force more powerful than a woman determined to rise.” —W.E.B. Dubois

With every ounce of love I have, and a heart that overflows with gratitude for my own journey,

Dr. Shruti