I was recently diagnosed with gestational diabetes and anemia.

Diabetes runs in my family. My mother developed it when she was pregnant with me — and it never went away. My father, on the other hand, managed to keep it at bay through diet and exercise until his sixties. Their paths have always been a reminder to me that genetics load the gun, but lifestyle pulls the trigger.

For years, I’ve tried to do everything “right.” I’ve followed a low-carb, low-sugar diet and stayed active — walking, yoga, dancing, anything to keep my body in motion. It wasn’t about weight or aesthetics; it was about longevity and self-preservation. I wanted to stave off diabetes for as long as I could.

So when I got pregnant, I knew there was a chance this could happen — but I secretly hoped that my discipline would protect me. That maybe, just maybe, I could outsmart my genes.

But pregnancy has a funny way of humbling even the most careful planners. Suddenly, the foods I once loved repulsed me. The smell of meat made me nauseous. The only thing that brought comfort was carbs — toast, rice, potatoes, pasta. I was just trying to make it through each day, feeding myself what I could stomach.

Now, sitting with the diagnosis, I can’t help but feel like I’ve betrayed my own body — as if I’ve been slowly poisoning myself without realizing it. It’s a strange mix of guilt, frustration, and resignation.

But I’m also reminding myself that this isn’t a failure. It’s chemistry. It’s biology. It’s pregnancy. My body is doing something extraordinary — growing a life — and sometimes, that process throws even the most well-laid plans off balance.

So this next chapter isn’t about control. It’s about compassion. About learning to work with my body, not against it.

Maybe this is another form of baby steps — not just toward motherhood, but toward surrender.