The Two Lines That Shook My World
By Prerna Chandra ·
I never imagined two pink lines could cause such silence inside me.
The test lay on the bathroom counter. My hands trembled. My husband was calling my name outside, his voice full of hope, but I couldn’t answer. My throat was tight, my chest heavy.
I thought I would feel joy. Or at least the nervous excitement that everyone talks about. Instead, I felt fear creep up my spine.
Later, when I told him, his face lit up. He lifted me in his arms, almost giddy. My mother cried tears of joy on the phone, already talking about baby names. The world seemed to conspire in celebration.
And me? I smiled, I nodded, I played along. But inside, a whisper wouldn’t leave me alone: I am not ready. And maybe I never will be.
This wasn’t part of the deal…..
The Quiet Conflict
No one tells you how heavy expectation can feel.
We live in a world where a woman’s path feels prewritten: grow up, marry, have children. Somewhere between our first birthday and our wedding day, society decides what our milestones should be.
But milestones don’t always feel like victories. Sometimes they feel like chains.
I looked around the room at the congratulations, the flowers, the happy chaos. And I wondered: Does anyone really ask a woman how she feels when she finds out she’s pregnant? Or do we all just assume she should be happy?
“One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman.”
Simone de Beauvoir
And in that moment, I realised how much of womanhood is still scripted by others what we should celebrate, when we should be ready, and how we should feel.
What a Child Truly Needs
The thought that haunted me was not about diapers, schools, or sleepless nights. It was this: Am I capable of creating a safe home for another human being?
Because children don’t grow only on milk and bedtime stories. they grow on the air inside the house. The glances exchanged, the tone of arguments, the silence that lingers longer than words.
I remembered my own childhood. My parents did their best. But their moods shaped me more than their words. Some days felt like sunshine; others like walking on eggshells. And even now, years later, I carry that weather inside me.
What if I repeat the same?
“The greatest burden a child must bear is the unlived life of its parents.”
Carl Jung
Parenting From Wounds
That night, lying awake, I thought of the parents I had known friends, neighbours, relatives. Not cruel, not evil, just… wounded.
The mother who loved deeply but was ruled by her emotions, unpredictable as a storm. The father who measured love in medals and achievements. The parent who was physically there but emotionally absent, scrolling through life with vacant eyes. The ones who never healed their own pain, so it leaked into their children.
And I wondered, which one would I become?
Because no parent begins that way. Every parent starts with awe, holding a tiny life and whispering promises into the night. But somewhere along the way, our old wounds catch up, spilling into the cradle we swore to protect.
The Faces of Immature Parenting
As I thought more, I realised how many children are raised not by cruelty, but by unexamined wounds.
- The Emotional Parent — stormy, unpredictable, ruled by feelings rather than reason. A child learns to tiptoe, never sure what mood awaits.
- The Driven Parent — ambitious, exacting, often mistaking achievement for love. A child grows up learning worth is measured in medals, not presence.
- The Passive Parent — physically there, emotionally absent. A child may have food and shelter but starves for attention.
- The Rejecting Parent — critical, resentful, making the child feel like an intrusion rather than a gift.
When Children Become Bandages
I’ve seen couples bring a child into their marriage, not out of readiness, but out of desperation.
A friend once confessed she thought having a baby would “fix” their relationship that her husband might stop leaving for days if a child anchored him. Another told me her fights with her partner paused only when their toddler needed attention.
Children cannot fix cracks between two adults. They only reveal them more sharply. As Kahlil Gibran wrote in The Prophet:
“Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you.”
If they are not ours to own, how dare we use them as bandages for wounds we refuse to heal ourselves?
The Weight of Expectation
Society showers flowers at pregnancy announcements. We host baby showers, paint nurseries, and knit socks. But how often do we stop to ask: What kind of home will this child arrive into?
Not the painted crib or the cartoon wallpaper. The emotional home. Will it be safe? Will it be tender? Will it allow mistakes without fear?
We clap at the “good news” without pausing to ask whether it truly is good news for the woman, for the couple, for the child.
And yet, the pressure to smile, to play along, is enormous.
The Hardest Question
That night, I lay awake, hand on my stomach, heart pounding. Everyone else was dreaming of lullabies. I was dreaming of questions.
Am I strong enough to give a child what I never had?
Will my wounds spill into their world, no matter how hard I try?
What if love is not enough?
And the scariest question of all: Is it fair to bring a child into the world if we haven’t yet learned how to be whole ourselves?
Where Courage Really Lies
I’ve come to believe that courage in parenthood isn’t about midnight feedings or school admissions. It’s about facing yourself before you face a child.
It’s about asking: Am I willing to try? To meet my own shadows, my own ego, my own patterns and at least attempt to do better? Not perfectly. Not flawlessly. But consciously.
Rainer Maria Rilke once said, “Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage.”
Maybe the real dragon isn’t pregnancy. Or parenting. Or even society’s pressure. Maybe the dragon is silence the silence where we bury questions we’re too afraid to voice.
The Two Pink Lines
The two lines haven’t changed. They still sit there, stubborn and undeniable. Everyone else still celebrates, knitting socks, planning nurseries, showering blessings.
But in the quiet, I know this:
Bringing a child into the world isn’t just about biology. It’s about responsibility.
About the emotional home we create before we welcome another life into it.
And maybe the bravest thing any parent can do the thing no one claps for is to PAUSE.
And ask the question that still hangs in the air — soft, heavy, unanswered:
Should we bring children into this world when we haven’t yet built a home within ourselves?
Because a child doesn’t need perfect parents. But they do need conscious ones.