A Note Before You Read

This is a personal diary series written in real time.

It’s about pregnancy and perimenopause — not as medical advice, not as inspiration, and not as a lesson already learned — but as lived experience while it’s still unfolding.

I’m not writing this to explain myself, to perform gratitude, or to arrive at neat conclusions.
I’m writing to witness what it feels like to be here.

Some entries may hold uncertainty, grief, tenderness, or contradiction.
That doesn’t mean I’m lost — it means I’m present.

I’m not looking for advice, reassurance, or interpretation.
What I welcome instead is quiet witnessing.

If you’re reading because you’re curious, reflective, or simply human — thank you.
If you’re looking for certainty, answers, or conclusions — this may not be the place.

This is not an announcement.
It’s a diary.

A Little More Context (for myself, mostly)

I want to record this part too, because memory gets slippery when shock is involved.

My last period was sometime in the middle of December. I don’t remember the exact date—and that alone tells you how normal that felt to me. My cycle hasn’t been predictable for a long time.

Hanz and I made love many times between then and now. We didn’t use protection.
Not because we were careless—but because, honestly, I believed my body was already past this.

I’m 47.
I’m in perimenopause.
Pregnancy felt… improbable. Almost theoretical.

Irregular cycles are my baseline now. One month barely anything, the next month a heavy flow. I’ve lived inside that rhythm long enough that a missed period doesn’t set off alarms anymore.

When we went to Bohol to celebrate Hanz’s birthday, part of me expected my period to come then.
It didn’t.
I didn’t worry.

When our vacation ended and my period still hadn’t come, I still didn’t worry. This is how my body has been.

On January 26, I had blood work done in Cebu—cholesterol, blood sugar, liver enzymes, CBC. The usual markers. I didn’t even think to include a pregnancy test.

It didn’t occur to me.

When the results came back and everything looked good—better than it had in a long time—I felt quietly relieved. Proud, even. My body felt like it was finally stabilizing. Cooperating.

Then, back in Oslob on February 1–2, something shifted.

I started feeling nauseous at the sight and smell of food. That had never happened to me before. I remember joking—half seriously—that maybe this would finally help me lose weight.

But then the aches came.

My old cesarean scar felt tender in a way I hadn’t felt in years. There was a strange, lumpy sensation on the upper right side of it—unfamiliar, noticeable. My breasts were unusually sore, beyond the usual hormonal tenderness I’d come to expect.

And then there was the dream.

Someone told me I was pregnant.

I woke up anxious in a way that felt different—specific, sharp, unmistakable.

That was when I asked Hanz to buy a pregnancy test.

Not because I was convinced.
But because something in my body was already speaking, and I didn’t want to ignore it.

The rest unfolded the way it did.

I’m writing this down not to justify why I didn’t “know sooner,” and not to explain myself to anyone.

I’m writing it because this is what it actually felt like to live inside this body during that stretch of time—normal, ordinary, unalarmed… until suddenly, I wasn’t.

The Day the Test Turned Positive (Pregnancy, Perimenopause, and the Shock I Didn’t Expect)

I didn’t take the pregnancy test alone.

I was in the bathroom with Tuz.

I remember looking around for something—anything—I could use as a makeshift petri dish so I could collect my urine properly. I didn’t want to mess it up. I wanted to do it right. Even then, before I knew anything, I was already careful.

Tuz was there the whole time. Watching. Curious. Calm.

It didn’t feel strange.
It felt… domestic. Ordinary.
Like life continuing while something enormous was quietly lining itself up.

I used the little suction tube.
A few drops. That’s all it took.

And then it happened very fast.

The C line appeared.
One line.

I remember feeling surprised—not relieved, not disappointed. Just surprised.

I think Tuz and I laughed. Not because it was funny, but because we were shocked. That kind of laugh that happens when your body doesn’t know which emotion to choose, so it chooses laughter by default.

And then the second line came.

So fast.
Too fast.

It was like my nervous system didn’t even have time to brace.

I panicked.

I don’t even know what I felt—fear, surprise, happiness, disbelief, grief. Everything arrived at once, layered on top of each other.

I asked Tuz, “Can you read what the label says? What does it mean when there are two lines?”

He turned the packet over and read it carefully.

“Two lines means positive.”

I was still sitting on the toilet.
My panty was still down.

And then Hanz rushed in.

I don’t even remember calling him. It was like the moment called him.

Suddenly he was there, hugging me while I was still sitting on the toilet—my body half-undressed, completely exposed. Tuz was there too. All three of us in this small bathroom, suspended inside something none of us had expected.

I started crying.

Not quietly.
Not politely.

I cried the way you cry when your body remembers something before your mind can organize it.

Hanz was holding me, caressing my back. Tuz asked why I was crying.

And Hanz said gently, “Because mommy remembers what it was like the first time she was pregnant. It was really hard.”

That was true.
That is true.

I cried there for a while. Still sitting. Still undone.

Eventually I washed myself, stood up, pulled my panty back on, washed my face, washed my hands. Ordinary movements layered over something life-altering.

Hanz asked if I wanted to go back to bed and sleep.

I said no.
I said I still had work.

I don’t know why I said that.

Maybe because work felt familiar.
Maybe because stopping felt dangerous.
Maybe because part of me wanted to prove that nothing had already taken me away from myself.

I took a photo of the test—the one with the two lines—and I sent it to ChatGPT.

That’s where this part of the story begins.

Since then, I’ve been asking about food. About skincare. About medications. About what to stop, what to keep, how to take care of this body and this possible life inside it.

I’ve been trying to do everything right.

Hanz and I talked about blood tests. We asked Jona first, but she was busy with lodge responsibilities, so Hanz went himself to the diagnostic center. He found out they do blood tests. We’ll go tomorrow.

Life keeps moving.

And I’m here, trying to catch up to myself.

---

The Shock Beneath the Grief

I realize now that part of the shock—the part that hurt the most—is this:

I am 47.

I’m not new to this body.

I’ve lived in it through years of perimenopause—the hot flashes, the cold flashes, the extreme mood swings that came out of nowhere, the body aches, the exhaustion that never quite matched my effort.

For a long time, pregnancy felt like a chapter that had already closed.

I thought my body was transitioning out of that season, not quietly circling back to it.

So when the test turned positive, I wasn’t just surprised.

I was disoriented.

Because this happened right when things were finally stabilizing.

My blood tests were good.
My numbers were normal.
My internal organs were healthy.

For once, my body felt like it was cooperating instead of fighting me.

I thought: Now.
Now I get to enjoy this.
Now I get to scale my life.
Now I get to live without constantly managing symptoms, crises, or recovery.

And then—this.

I didn’t plan on becoming a mother again.

Having Tuz was a blessing—profound and complete. He already feels like more than enough. Whole. Life-giving.

I wasn’t yearning for another baby.
I was finally allowing myself to want space.

I also need to admit something uncomfortable.

I blame myself.

For not using contraception.
For assuming I was “too old” to get pregnant.
For believing perimenopause meant safety.

There’s guilt there. Quiet. Sharp.

And layered on top of that is grief—not just for plans, but for timing.

I keep asking myself:

When do I get to simply enjoy my life without another major responsibility rearranging it?
When do I get to live a chapter where I’m not always adjusting, postponing, or reconfiguring myself around care?

I’m tired of grieving.
I’m tired of crying.

And yet, I don’t want to rush myself into gratitude just to prove I’m a “good” mother already.

Because the truth is this:

This baby deserves a mother who feels safe in her own life.
A mother who isn’t forcing happiness through clenched teeth.
A mother who isn’t erasing herself in the name of gratitude.

Just like Tuz deserved—and received—a mother who was present, real, and loving.

I don’t want to punish myself for feeling what I feel.
But I also don’t want to live in grief forever.

Maybe the shift I’m longing for isn’t from sadness to joy.

Maybe it’s from self-blame to self-trust.

My body carried me through perimenopause.
My body healed.
My body stabilized.
And somehow, my body also did this.

That doesn’t mean I have to like the timing.
But it does mean my body isn’t betraying me.

I want to stop asking, “Why now?”
And start asking, “How do I stay with myself now?”

I don’t need to be euphoric.
I don’t need to be perfectly grateful yet.

I just want to feel good enough.
Steady enough.
Kind enough to myself.

So that whatever unfolds next is met with honesty—not self-punishment.

For tonight, that’s enough.

~~~~

When I wrote about welcoming February again, I said I wasn’t choosing myself loudly anymore—I was choosing myself consistently.

This moment doesn’t erase that.

If anything, it tests whether that permission was real.

I don’t yet know what will continue as planned and what may need to pause. More will be clear after my pregnancy blood test.

But I do know this:
Choosing myself was never about perfect timing or uninterrupted momentum.
It was about refusing to disappear inside whatever life brings next.

This is not a reset.
It’s a continuation—just one I didn’t expect.

To be continued…