The First Trimester: A Season of Surrender

If I had to describe the first trimester in one word, it would be holy.

Not just because it marked the beginning of new life growing within me, but because of what God was doing in and around me too. Looking back now, sitting here over 20 weeks pregnant, it still feels surreal. Not because I didn’t believe God could do it, but because I’m still in awe that He chose this moment to answer a prayer I’ve held quietly in my heart for years.

We found out I was pregnant early. One afternoon, I’d just finished a work meeting when I felt a sudden urge deep in my spirit.

Go take a test.

I argued with it. It felt too early. Too familiar. I’d been here before, taking a test before my period was due, only to face disappointment. But something wouldn’t let it go.

So I listened. I took the test. And there it was, a faint line.

My heart skipped. I remember texting my husband in a blur:

“Bebe… I just randomly took a test and there’s a faint line.”

And then I cried. Not because I was scared, but because something in me knew. This was God. This was His timing, not mine. Not even two months earlier I had fasted and prayed for God to heal my womb (I was diagnosed with PCOS in 2018, but that’s a story for another day), and suddenly here I was, standing in the middle of a miracle.

I worshipped. I praised. I thanked Him for hearing me. For loving me.

And in that moment, I felt a kind of peace I can’t explain.

The next few weeks were a blur of emotions and exhaustion. I cried because I ruined my cereal. I cried because my husband almost finished my Cheetos. I went from never napping to napping on the couch, in the car, basically anywhere I could find a moment to close my eyes. Hunger hit hard—every two hours like clockwork—and while nausea wasn’t constant, it snuck up on me when I least expected it.

But more than any of the symptoms, I’ll never forget how sacred those weeks felt. When I was six weeks pregnant, both my husband and I got baptised. I can’t put into words what it meant to go under the water carrying the very life I had prayed for. It felt like complete surrender. A new beginning in every possible way.

The following week, we met our son for the first time and heard his heartbeat. That sound, so strong and steady was the most beautiful reminder that God was knitting something together far beyond what we could see.

And no, I didn’t spiral into questions about whether I’d be a good mum. I didn’t question if my baby would grow strong or if I would feel like myself again. Not because I had it all together, but because I had given it to God. Every part of this journey, every ache, every unknown, was placed in His hands the moment that second pink line appeared. This baby is a gift from Him, and I know He will carry me through.

There are still days I feel stretched thin. Days I feel tired, overwhelmed, weepy for no reason. But even in that, there’s grace. My husband, bless him, has been my calm in the chaos. He rubs my feet, tells me I’m doing great when I don’t believe it, and finds humour in all the hormonal chaos that pregnancy brings. Pregnant me might be emotional, but she is deeply loved.

The first trimester wasn’t just about symptoms and survival—it was the beginning of something sacred. God didn’t just place a baby in my womb; He anchored a deeper faith in my heart. A quieter strength. A softer surrender. A new version of me is forming too—one that trusts more freely, hopes more deeply, and clings to the promise that what God starts, He will sustain.

And as I keep walking this road—bump growing, faith deepening—I’m learning to breathe through the unknown, resting in the truth that God’s already holding the days I haven’t lived yet.

“I prayed for this child, and the Lord has granted me what I asked of him.”

—1 Samuel 1:27

Until next time,

Charnè