I’m 21 and Pregnant: Honest Realities of Young Parenthood No One Shares
The glow of my phone lights up the half-folded pile of toddler pajamas on my coffee table at 9:17 pm. My 2-year-old, Lila, is passed out on the couch next to me, a strand of blonde hair stuck to her juice-sticky cheek, and a half-crushed goldfish cracker peeks out of the pocket of my worn college hoodie. The DM reads exactly what I typed into a dozen anonymous parenting forums three years ago: I’m 21 and pregnant. Could someone tell me the honest truth about being a parent? No sugarcoating, no lectures.
Back when I was that 21-year-old, a junior in college working 20 hours a week at a campus coffee shop, all I got was extremes. Older relatives told me I’d ruined my life before it even started. Mommy influencers on Instagram gushed that it was the greatest blessing I’d ever receive, all soft-focus newborn photos and matching linen outfits. No one told me the middle ground, the messy, ordinary, in-between stuff that actually makes up every day.
I found out I was pregnant on a Tuesday, after my morning lecture, and cried in a bathroom stall for 45 minutes because I didn’t know what else to do. I’d always planned to have kids eventually, just not when I was still borrowing textbooks from the library and splitting a $5 pizza with my roommate every Friday. What no one tells you first is that it’s okay to grieve the life you had planned before the baby. I spent the first six months after Lila was born sitting in my car after class, crying for 10 minutes before I went to pick her up from childcare, because I couldn’t go get margaritas with my friends like we used to. That grief doesn’t mean you don’t love your baby. It just means you’re human, and change hurts.
The second thing no one talks about is how tight money will be, even if you have help. My parents chipped in for groceries some months, Lila’s dad worked full time to pay rent, and we still had to visit the campus food bank once a month for formula and diapers my first year. I wore the same pair of white sneakers for two years, holes in the soles, because I couldn’t justify spending $60 on new shoes for me when Lila outgrew her socks every two months. I skipped my 22nd birthday dinner because we couldn’t afford to eat out. It’s not that you “make it work” magically, like all the generic quotes say. You make choices, some of them suck, and you keep going.
The third thing? You will never, for at least the first three years, get to pee alone. I’m not even exaggerating. Lila learned to open doors at 18 months, and there hasn’t been a single trip to the bathroom where she doesn’t stand right next to me chattering about squirrels or her stuffed rabbit. Last month I tried to go to a full movie with my partner, and I had to leave halfway through to go pump because my body still remembers it needs to feed a toddler. Your body doesn’t feel fully yours for a long time, and that’s okay to admit is annoying.
When I started writing back to that 21-year-old, I didn’t just list the hard parts. People forget to tell you that there are good parts that don’t make it into the lectures about “ruining your life.” Last week, Lila chased a butterfly across the park and stopped mid-run to yell “MOMMY! LOOK HOW FAST I GO!” and that moment was brighter than any night out I ever had when I was 21. I graduated college last year, a full semester earlier than some of my friends who changed majors three times, because having Lila made me show up to class and turn in my papers when I would have skipped to hang out otherwise. I’m not saying it’s a “blessing in disguise” or any of that cheesy stuff. It’s just different. Different than what I planned, but not bad.
I gave her three concrete things to do if she decides to parent, because all the vague “just be strong” advice never helped me. First, lock in your childcare at least three months before your due date. Most colleges have on-campus childcare for students that’s half the price of private centers, but they fill up months in advance sometimes. I waited too long to apply, and almost had to drop out entirely when Lila was born, until a professor pulled some strings to get me a last-minute spot. That’s the kind of thing no one tells you to plan for. Second, take one hour a week just for you, no exceptions. Even if it’s just sitting in your car after dropping your kid off, eating a candy bar and scrolling TikTok. I didn’t do this for the first year, and I burned out so bad I couldn’t get out of bed some days. That one hour doesn’t make you selfish. It makes you able to show up the rest of the week. Third, don’t turn down help even if it feels awkward. I turned down my aunt’s offer to watch Lila every Saturday morning for three months because I thought I had to do everything alone to prove I was a good mom. That was stupid. Say yes to the free babysitting, say yes to the bag of hand-me-down clothes, say yes to WIC and childcare subsidies even if you’re embarrassed to apply. You don’t get a trophy for struggling alone.
Lila stirs on the couch next to me, and I tuck the blanket tighter around her shoulders. I finish typing my reply to that 21-year-old, and I don’t tell her everything will be okay. I don’t tell her it’s all hard or all wonderful. I tell her that it’s just life, some days good, some days bad, most days just ordinary. I still don’t know what I’m doing half the time. I forgot to buy milk this morning, Lila colored on the living room wall last week, and I still can’t afford a vacation. But right now, my kid is asleep, my laundry is almost folded, and I have half a cup of cold coffee on the table that’s all mine. That’s enough for today.
Please indicate: Thinking In Educating » I’m 21 and Pregnant: Honest Realities of Young Parenthood No One Shares