More than a Number

Grace Thomas

Feb 21, 2025

Originally written Summer 2024 when I was pregnant with Emma

May be an image of heart and text that says 'february love #exhalebloghop'

"How are you feeling?" My OBGYN smiled at me.

My legs dangled on the examination table, "Good," I replied.

She nodded, waiting for more.

"Mmm, well, I think my weight is better this time—my first baby was ten pounds!”

"Grace, the green line is the ideal weight,” She spun the screen around as I held my breath, “And the purple dot represents your weight."

My shoulders dropped as I stared at the purple dot.

I was above the line.

Beep, beep, beep. I rubbed my bloodshot eyes, fumbling for the alarm. I saw the time: 5 am. Would everything go according to plan?

May 31st had been on my calendar for months. Clothes poured out of my suitcase as I slammed it shut, unsure what would fit my pregnant belly.

My husband drove me to the airport before the sun was up.

“Are you excited to meet your writing cohort?” he asked.

I yawned, “I think so—I don’t know what to expect. We’ve been meeting together for nine months on Zoom, but never in person.”

"Well, I'm sure you'll enjoy it; see you in a few days!" He dropped me off at the airport, and we parted ways.

After going through security, I bought a latte and stared out the window. The caffeine swam through my bloodstream while my baby girl jiggled through my tummy. Maybe I should have gotten a decaf, a nonfat, or just plain old H₂0.

A few days before, I scrolled Old Navy's maternity section, desperate for flattering clothes.

But I grimaced at the size button. Should I get my pre-pregnancy size or current size? Was I a medium or a large?

At this point, everything felt large. My calves swelled like a river, and my belly felt more like a mountain than a bump.

My thoughts interrupted me—Could I still be confident in a bigger size? How come ______ is so skinny!

I sighed and bought the jeans, hoping they’d cover my insecurities.

“Attention, your flight to Michigan will be departing soon.” The nerves bubbled up inside me. I tried to distract myself with writing. I opened a document entitled "Book Proposal." A dream of mine, still waiting to take shape.

I didn’t get very far before getting distracted by my Substack. My heart dropped as I checked my dashboard. My views, open rates, and morale were all going downhill. There were more numbers, disappointment, and impossible scales.

What’s the point? Normally, my toddler and housework kept me busy, but at the airport, my obligations vanished and insecurities flooded my mind. Am I a good writer? Am I a good mom?

My reflection startled me in the mirror. The pink maternity jeans struggled to stay on, highlighting my hips in all the wrong places. Showcasing curves I didn't used to, or want to have.

Like an oversized tablecloth from an antique store—valuable to some but an eyesore to others.

I grimaced at the tag and my new size.

"Look at your cute belly," strangers smiled and commented on my size—I mean pregnancy.

I tried to smile in return and focus on the soul growing inside me, instead of the pounds multiplying outside me.

I landed in Grand Rapids, Michigan, feeling excited and apprehensive. I found my rental car and zoomed down the highway.

After fifty minutes, I pulled off to an area that buzzed with life. Locals sat on the porch, and children skated down streets.

I wobbled up to the vacation house as fellow writers welcomed me with open arms.

But the next day, we woke up and started the hard work—writing.

But was I a writer? Did I fit into this group of women?

I sat with my mentor and shared my aspirations, “Well, one day I’d like to write a book, but the market just seems so oversaturated.”

To my surprise, she didn’t focus on the numbers. Instead, she asked a question, “What topics are you passionate about?”

Beep, beep, beep.

A nurse entered the room with a high-pitched voice and exclaimed, "You're fully dilated; it's time to push!"

My contractions compounded. I grasped the bed railings and pushed as hard as I could.

My body throbbed in pain.

Contraction. Peace. Contraction.

After several rounds of pushing, my baby girl arrived.

Her cries echoed through the hall, and tears stung my cheeks.

The pink maternity jeans didn’t matter—her soul was/is more important than my flesh.

Birth Story

Grace Thomas

October 1, 2024

On September 24th, 2024 I became a mother of 2. It’s been almost a week and the details are already getting fuzzy. I took a moment to record the birth story and hope that it can be encouraging to you.

Read full story

“Okay ladies, today’s devotion is Matthew 6:25-27,” My ears perked as my mentor read these words.

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? 26 Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? 27 Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?”

Then I realized—it’s not about the numbers.

Not about my weight, subscribers, or the size of my clothes.

I was focusing so much on my kingdom, that I forgot about the most important one.

Will my size change? Maybe—maybe not.

Will writing continue? I hope so.

Did I return the pants? Yes.

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Love.”