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So, I’m Pregnant.

I’ve been quiet about this. Not because I was hiding, exactly—but because I needed time to come to terms with it. And I mean real time. The kind that stretches across sleepless nights and weird cravings and long, silent stares at the ceiling.

I’m pregnant.

And yeah, I know. I just lectured my brother about rushing into parenthood. Told him he was too young, too impulsive, too wrapped up in the idea of legacy to think about the reality. I meant every word when I said it. I still do.

But life doesn’t wait for your logic to catch up.

When I found out, I didn’t cry. I didn’t celebrate. I just sat with it. Let it settle. Let it shift something in me that I didn’t know was ready to move.

I’ve always wanted to be a mother. That part’s never been in question. But I wanted it on my terms. In my timeline. With a plan. And this? This wasn’t the plan.

So I stayed quiet. I let the news live in my body before I let it live in the world. I needed to feel it before I could talk about it.

And now I’m talking.

I don’t have a perfect caption or a curated announcement. Just this: I’m pregnant. We're figuring it out. I’m still me.

More soon.