From Mellara Gold
What my two pregnancies taught me about strength, trust and listening
When I became pregnant with my first child, I had already taught yoga for several years. I assumed pregnancy would become just another chapter of my practice.
Instead, it completely changed my understanding of yoga.
Like many first-time mothers, I was full of excitement. But underneath that excitement I was experiencing something I rarely talked about.
Fear.
Not because someone had told me something was wrong. It didn’t exist.
I just became deeply aware that I was responsible for this tiny life growing inside of me, and suddenly everything felt precious.
Will I be moving too much?
Would I lift something very heavy?
Could I somehow be doing something that could jeopardize this pregnancy?
Looking back now, I realize that these fears are probably more common than many women admit.
Although I have been teaching yoga for years, I found myself practicing less than I expected.
I wasn’t trying to get stronger.
I was trying to be quieter.
My husband and I took long walks along the beach. I swam at our local gym. My yoga practice became slower, gentler and more contemplative. Instead of asking my body to do something, I just listened.
One of the greatest gifts prenatal yoga gave me during that first pregnancy wasn’t flexibility or strength.
It was empty.
Permit to slow down.
License to trust that sometimes less really is more.
Permission to let awareness—not aspiration—guide my practice.
People often think that prenatal yoga is mainly about preparing for childbirth through movement, breathing techniques and specific postures.
These things definitely have value.
A mindful prenatal practice can help maintain mobility, improve circulation, relieve back discomfort, support posture as the body changes, encourage healthy breathing, and develop greater pelvic floor awareness.
But for me, something quieter was happening.
Each practice became an opportunity to ask a simple question:
What does my body need today?
Looking back, I realize that question became one of the first lessons of motherhood.
When I got pregnant with my second child, everything was different.
Maybe it was because I had already experienced pregnancy once before. Maybe because this baby had a different temperament to begin with.
Our first baby was colicky and up most of the night during those first few months. Like many new parents, we’ve experienced the exhaustion that comes with caring for a struggling baby.
My second pregnancy started in a different place.
I was sleeping better.
I felt more confident.
And I realized something that I hadn’t fully understood the first time.
I really needed movement.
Living in San Francisco with a young child meant that life naturally involved activity. We walked almost every day in the hills of the city. We took mommy and me classes together and I got back into a more regular yoga practice.
Not because I wanted to stay in shape.
Not because I was trying to “bounce”.
But because I realized that motherhood demands a lot from us physically.
We carry children.
Pick them up.
Turn.
Squat.
Rock.
Soothe.
And keep showing up, day after day.
This time, the traffic didn’t seem afraid.
It felt like a way to prepare—not just for birth, but for the day-to-day realities of motherhood.
Yoga helped me build strength.
Walking strengthened my legs and stamina.
Breathwork reminded me how to mellow out when life got busy.
Together, these practices helped me feel calmer, more capable, and more present as our family prepared to grow.
When labor finally arrived, I wasn’t thinking about yoga poses.
I didn’t remember sequences.
Instead, I found myself returning to the same qualities that yoga had been quietly cultivating all along.
Breathe.
Stay present.
Soften what you don’t have to fight.
Trust your body.
I could not control the birth.
But I could return, again and again, to the present moment.
Today, more than nineteen years later, I still think about those two pregnancies.
The first one taught me self-control.
The second taught me confidence.
One asked me to slow down.
The other invited me to move with greater confidence.
None were better than the other.
Everyone asked me something different and yoga helped me listen carefully enough to answer.
Looking back, I don’t think prenatal yoga was just preparing me for labor.
It was preparing me for the thousands of ordinary moments that would follow.
The feedings in the middle of the night.
The endless carry.
The uncertainty.
The joy.
The moments when I would need patience instead of perfection, presence instead of control.
Pregnancy lasts only one season.
Motherhood becomes a lifetime.
And the qualities that yoga quietly cultivated all those years ago—awareness, adaptability, strength, and confidence—remained with me long after my children had outgrown my arms.
They continue to shape not only the way I practice yoga, but the way I move through life itself.
Refusal
The Content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis or treatment. Always seek the advice of your doctor or other qualified health care provider with any questions you may have about a medical condition.
