My ‘geriatric’ pregnancy at 43 is exhausting, empowering, and totally worth talking about

No, it wasn’t planned. No, we weren’t trying. No, I didn’t want more than two children.

Yes, I thought I was done with diapers and night feeds. 

No, I don’t need reminders about how old I’ll be when this baby graduates from high school. 

The two pink lines that changed everything

Believe me – I’ve overanalyzed this from every angle. You don’t need to do it for me.

So no, getting pregnant at 43 wasn’t part of the plan. But maybe – just maybe – my body knew something my mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

When I turned 43, I was the healthiest I’d ever been. I had spent the last two years completely rebuilding my relationship with my body. I quit drinking. I stopped late-night snacking. I learned about breathwork and somatic healing. I prioritized protein, sleep, and strength training, slowly piecing together a puzzle of wellness that finally felt aligned with me. 

I lost 40 pounds. More importantly, I finally felt grounded, embodied, and in control of my health.

Even though I’d faithfully tracked my cycle for eight and a half years, this little soul clearly had other plans. Maybe it makes sense that a baby would choose me as its vessel. I had become an optimal version of myself.

Still, when my period was six days late, pregnancy wasn’t even on my radar. I thought, Perimenopause? Already? My friends had started telling stories – spotty cycles, unpredictable bleeding, the collective feminine rage that emerges in our 40s. 

I figured I was entering that chapter.

I took the pregnancy test just to rule it out before calling my naturopath to run hormone panels. 

But the test didn’t rule anything out. 

It ruled everything from that moment forward.

Two pink lines.

Then another test.

Then I broke down.

From breakdown to breakthrough

“No, no, no, no. I don’t want this!” I cried, shaking in my husband’s arms. He held me as I fell apart, whispering that we’d figure it out. That it would all be OK.

But I didn’t want it to be OK. I wanted it not to be real. I wanted my life, my plans, my identity to stay untouched. 

For two weeks, I dissociated. I cancelled everything. I couldn’t talk to anyone. I was scared, numb, depressed, and then ashamed for not feeling overjoyed about this “miracle.” 

I waffled between denial and surrender. I stopped drinking coffee. I wept. I made a playlist for the baby. I raged. The waves were constant, never gentle. One minute, I rode them like a zen surfer. Next, I begged the tsunami to take me under.

I know I’m not alone in this complex tangle of emotions. Whether you’re facing an unexpected pregnancy at 40+, navigating fertility treatments, or questioning your life’s trajectory – that simultaneous fear and wonder is universal.

Eventually, I did what I always do to claw my way out of an abyss: I put one foot in front of the other. I let my husband in. A few close friends. As the fog of shock began to lift, I realized I had a choice – I could continue resisting this unexpected reality, or I could rewrite the script. 

Turning toward acceptance, I decided: If I’m going to be pregnant at 43, I’m going to do it as a fiercely embodied mother. 

Because I’m not the same woman I was when I gave birth at 33 and then 35. Back then, I didn’t know what I didn’t know. I didn’t know I had choices. 

But this time, I know I have choices. And a voice. 

The shift happened gradually, then suddenly, like a switch flipping in my brain. Instead of drowning in what-ifs, I began asking myself what kind of experience I actually wanted.

In my previous pregnancies, my first call would have been to my OB. But this time, I couldn’t bring myself to dial the number. I didn’t want the “geriatric pregnancy” label or the endless parade of tests and warnings. 

Instead, I hired my doula first – someone I trust deeply. She’s been my breathwork coach and a mentor in feminine embodiment. Last year, she graciously shared her journey through her own home birth, and I remember thinking, If I ever had to do this again, I’d do it like that.

So now here I am. Doing it like that.

She referred me to an incredible midwife team. Together, these women will help me reclaim this birth as a sacred rite instead of being reduced to a list of risks. They never use the word “geriatric.” They present facts without fear, offer options without pressure. I’ve done genetic testing. I had an anatomy scan ultrasound and saw my miracle mid-life surprise baby. 

All is well. 

The awkward questions no one prepared me for

Speaking of family – yes, we told our daughters.

At ages 8 and 9, they found out via a scavenger hunt. The final clue spelled out: “We will be big sisters in October.” We handed them “big sister” T-shirts and held our breath.

My older daughter was stunned. “Mom – you’re 42! Are you adopting a child?!”

“Actually, I’m 43,” I said. “And no. I’m pregnant.”

My wise-beyond-her-years daughter asked if I was afraid of how people would react. As she mirrored my fears, I told her the truth: “Yes, I am. But other people’s reactions are none of our business. This baby is a blessing – and if people don’t see it that way, that’s on them.”

Because at 43, I no longer live my life to make other people comfortable.

Since then, my daughters have been my daily support team. They help around the house. They rub my feet with lavender lotion. They talk to my belly every morning and every night. They call the baby “Spud” – and every time I “digest out loud” (because the gas is no joke this time around), they laugh and say, “Spud did it!”

Since going public with the news, I’ve discovered there’s something even more shocking to people than a 43-year-old being pregnant: the undeniable evidence that we’re still having sex. 

The looks on people’s faces when I tell them I’m pregnant is a masterclass in poorly concealed surprise. First comes the widened eyes, then the quick mental math (she has kids, how old?), followed by what I can only describe as an involuntary flash of “Oh my God, they’re still DOING IT.” One friend actually blurted out, “Wow, good for you guys, goes to show you’re still having fun!” like we’d just announced we climbed Everest, not that we occasionally manage to stay awake past 9 PM. 

My husband’s coworker actually patted him on the back and said, “Nice work, man,” as if knocking up your wife in your forties deserves some kind of achievement badge. Maybe it does. Someone send the trophy to my address – I’ll display it next to my prenatal vitamins and compression socks. 

At school pickup, one mom whispered, “Was it planned?” with such intensity you’d think she was asking if I’d committed a felony. When I said no, her relief was palpable – like somehow an “oops” baby at 43 is way more acceptable than two middle-aged parents deliberately deciding to restart the diaper phase. Either way, her scandalized expression made one thing clear: the mental image of parents of 3rd graders still getting it on was short-circuiting her brain. 

Because apparently, sex after 40 with someone you’ve been married to for over a decade is the real taboo here – not the pregnancy itself.

Rewriting the rulebook at 43

Physically, this pregnancy has been – surprisingly – gentle. I’m still walking, doing yoga, and working out with modifications. I’m hungrier than ever, especially in the first trimester, but that’s easing up. I do get tired more easily, but I rest when I need to. No guilt. No explanation.

My daily mantra is simple: Nourish yourself. Body, mind, spirit. Eat the good food. Say no to what drains me. Let myself cry when I need to. Say yes only to what lights me up.

Some days, I grieve for what I thought my life would be, scrolling through my friends’ Instagram feeds of them travelling, free. One of them is backpacking through Scotland with her 17-year-old daughter. When this baby is 17, I’ll be 60. I wonder: Will I be able to hike the Highlands? What kind of adventures will we have?

And even as I mourn the perceived freedom I’m losing, I feel more grounded than ever. I’m not “starting over.” I’m starting again – with a new level of clarity, strength, and self-trust. Pregnancy hormones have nearly healed a year-long frozen shoulder injury. My creativity is on fire. My business is more aligned than ever. I no longer tolerate anything that doesn’t move me or serve my highest self.

To other women navigating pregnancy in their 40s – whether planned or surprise, first baby or fifth – I see you. The comments, the concerns, the constant mental calculation of how old you’ll be when… 

I also see the wisdom you bring, the boundaries you’ve mastered, and the self-knowledge that makes you exactly the mother your baby needs right now.

There’s still this weird cultural taboo around getting pregnant “too young” or “too old.” But here’s my new truth:

No, it wasn’t planned. 

No, we weren’t trying. 

Yes, I’ll be 60 at high school graduation. 

And…

Yes, I am exactly the mother this baby needs.

Yes, I am stronger and more certain than I’ve ever been. 

Yes, I know what I’m doing – even when I don’t. 

Because sometimes the plans your body makes are better than the ones your mind could ever dream up.