By Brittany L. Bergman
@brittanylbergman

I slid the curtain closed and surveyed the dressing room. Hanging on the rack were jeans with hidden elastic waistbands, side panels, demi panels, and full panels; tops with empire waists and side ruching; dresses that tied in the back and had extra fabric in the front. I was a few weeks into my second trimester, and up until this point, I had avoided wearing maternity clothes altogether. I was afraid of looking frumpy, afraid of my changing body, afraid to admit that I was gaining weight—and after a long history of disordered eating, I was afraid that wearing maternity clothes would signal that I had lost control of myself.

More quickly than I imagined, though, my jeans became intolerable. The thighs were too tight, and I wore the waistbands unzipped and stretched as wide as they could go, using a belly band to hold them up. I struggled and wrestled my way into my pants every morning, and afterward I felt like a stuffed sausage. When I could no longer handle the discomfort of my pants button digging into my skin, I caved. I looked in the mirror of that maternity-store dressing room, took a deep breath, and reached for a pair of full-panel jeans.

For much of my life, I had felt constant pressure to hide my imperfections under my clothes, but suddenly my growing midsection was something to celebrate rather than conceal. Maternity clothes seemed uniquely designed to enhance instead of camouflage, to provide comfort and support instead of shame. As I stretched each item over my belly, I discovered the best-kept secret of pregnancy: maternity clothes are magic.

***

When we experience a significant emotional event—receive devastating news, witness an emergency, or experience deep surprise—we often develop a flashbulb memory. We can recall the moment in incredible, vivid detail: where we were sitting, who we were with, what the air smelled like, what we were wearing. Pregnancy seems to intensify everything else in our lives, adding weight and significance to things we may not have thought much about otherwise. We undergo a remarkable amount of change in a short span of time, and I think because of this, we create mini flashbulb memories throughout these nine months.

Each article of my maternity clothing represents one of those moments. The dresses and jeans and tops connect me to that tender time, each one bringing me right back to a specific memory—either of pregnancy or of regular life that kept happening all around me, even as I was undergoing this transformation.

The first maternity top that fit me when I was barely showing was a short-sleeved V-neck tee made of slub cotton with thin pink and white stripes. I wore it the night we found out our baby’s sex and during a trip to Colorado with my college friends. Their hands had once held mine as we watched sappy movies in our dorm rooms. They had embraced me while I cried over breakups that really were for the best, even if I couldn’t see it at the time. And years later, these friends rested their hands on my belly, waiting for the flutter of a little foot.

I was twenty-four weeks pregnant when my brother got married—not far enough along to feel uncomfortably large but far enough to be surprised at how much I had changed. I wore a gray knee-length chiffon dress with a deep V and a single ruffle that ran across the front. The silky fabric swished across my legs as I danced that night, and there was plenty of room for me to eat two pieces of cake.

By the time I hit thirty-seven weeks, I wanted nothing to do with the fitted maternity clothes I’d loved in the beginning. While I had once relished how they showed off my growing belly, I now felt itchy and confined within them. I switched them out for the oversized, supersoft T-shirts a friend had lent me, paired with a revolving collection of maternity yoga pants that I had stretched about as far as the waistbands would allow. The last few weeks of my pregnancy were full of tension and anxiety and illness, and these gentle clothes were a tactile way I could care for myself.

Months after my child was born—many more months than I had expected—I folded each item of maternity clothing and placed them all in a long plastic bin, storing the memories and the magic under my bed for safekeeping until I would need them again.

***

One March weekend after I’d had the baby, my next-door neighbor, Alyssa, texted to see whether my husband, Dan, and I wanted to meet her and her husband at the dog park. We loaded up our four-month-old and our dog and made the short drive there. 

I was eager to see Alyssa because we hadn’t talked in a few weeks. She’d finally been able to undergo the IVF transfer procedure, and I wanted to respect her space while she processed the results—whether they involved a positive or negative pregnancy test. 

As Alyssa and Matt approached us at the park, I scanned her face for any indication of what had happened. She took a deep breath and said the words I knew she’d been longing for: she was indeed pregnant. I squealed and congratulated her with a hug, and then I started firing the usual questions: “How are you feeling? Any nausea? Who have you told?”

We grimaced together as we talked about her morning sickness and exhaustion, acknowledging what a pain and a relief it is to have such a tangible reminder of the life growing inside. We discussed bloating and showing and projected when her belly would start to pop.

At the end of our walk, I offered to let her borrow my maternity clothes, and when I brought them to her later that week, it felt as if I were extending her an invitation to experience the magic.

Since then, I’ve lent these clothes out to another dear friend, Stephanie. She was pregnant with her first after a long period of waiting and wondering and wishing. These clothes—the soft jeans and striped shirts and flowy tanks—have grown and stretched with three women, made room for three new people in this world, and knitted us together in the process. Each piece came back to me carrying a new set of memories: moments of worry and relief, sorrow and celebration, loneliness and belonging.

***

I pulled the clothes out from under my bed a few years later, anticipating I would need them after getting a positive pregnancy test. I had long hoped my body would require these clothes a second time; that I would carry another life and experience the rapid expansion of my belly and my heart; that I would hang these pieces in my closet again, each one filled with my memories and those of my friends as well. But before I even had a chance to wash the clothes, I began to bleed.

I had expected to share my happy news with Alyssa and Stephanie, but instead I had to find the words to say I’d had a miscarriage. In the aftermath, they checked on me, provided dinner, offered to care for my first child while I recovered, and reminded me to care for myself and not be too quick to jump back into regular life.

I did become pregnant again, and this time, Alyssa lent me her maternity clothes to supplement my own. Stephanie surprised me with a Target gift card as a way of saying thank you, so I could replace the jeans that had become worn out from all the growth they’d seen.

When I finally had the chance to slip those clothes back on, it was like a reunion. They were softer than ever, ready to embrace me as I processed all that had happened since the last time I’d seen them, ready to stretch alongside me as I became a mom all over again.

It goes without saying that our bodies and souls need support as we become mothers, but perhaps support can come in ways we never expected. Maybe you’ll find it in a borrowed pair of jeans that make you feel confident and alive in your changing state. Maybe you’ll find it in a flowy floral dress, worn by multiple moms celebrating at their baby showers. Maybe it will show up as a box on your front porch, filled with hand-me-down nursing tops.

Wherever that provision comes from, I hope it points to a community of fellow mothers who will carry you through the hardest moments of carrying a child, who will remind you to be brave and compassionate toward yourself. And I hope when your body and soul have come to rest in their new shape, you will pay the magic forward.

From Expecting Wonder: The Transformative Experience of Becoming a Mother by Brittany L. Bergman copyright © 2020 Broadleaf Books. Reproduced by permission.

Guest essay written by Brittany L. Bergman. Brittany is a writer who is passionate about telling stories that provide refreshment, connection, and encouragement to mothers who don’t want to lose sight of their identity. She lives in the suburbs of Chicago with her husband and their two children. Her first book, Expecting Wonder, is about the identity-level transformation that makes us mothers. You can connect with her on Instagram or through her newsletter, Armchair Chats.

Photo by Lottie Caiella.