As a perinatal psychologist in Austin, Texas, I'd spent years helping women navigate pregnancy complications and birth trauma. I thought I understood what antepartum hospitalization meant for my patients' mental health. I could explain the psychology of medical confinement, discuss coping strategies for long-term bed rest, and validate the complex emotions that arise when pregnancy doesn't go as planned.

Then I became the patient.

I sat in my hospital bed on the Fourth of July, staring at the same wall I'd been looking at for weeks. Outside my window, I could hear the distant sounds of celebration. My phone lit up with photos from friends and family—backyard barbecues, kids in pool floaties, sparklers against the night sky. Everyone else's life looked so beautifully, painfully normal. And there I was, at 32 weeks pregnant, in the same hospital room I'd been in since 30 weeks and 2 days, wondering how many more days I'd be counting down on the calendar taped to my wall.

This was not how my pregnancy was suppose to go.

A note before we dive in: This post is more personal than what I typically share on this blog. However, when I was going through my antepartum hospitalization, I searched desperately for stories from other women who'd been through something similar—and I found very few. I don't want other women to feel as alone as I did in those moments.

When 5% Becomes 100%

At my 20-week ultrasound, we discovered I had placenta previa. I accepted this quickly—it meant a C-section, but it could resolve. The part that stuck with me, though no one else seemed worried about it, was when my doctor mentioned a 5% chance things could progress to something more serious: vasa previa, with blood vessels positioned dangerously in front of my cervix. If that happened, I'd be hospitalized at 32-34 weeks and deliver at 34-35 weeks.

Everyone told me to stop thinking about the negatives. "That's so unlikely," they'd say.

After my first pregnancy ended with complications, I wasn't expecting smooth sailing this time around. Every two weeks after that 20-week appointment, I'd go in for monitoring with Maternal-Fetal Medicine, watching the percentages creep up, the likelihood growing that I'd be the one in twenty. By 28 weeks, it was confirmed. The question was no longer "if" but "when."

At 30 weeks and 2 days, I came to the hospital expecting an overnight observation. The doctor came in and said simply, "I don't think you're going home." The medical team wasn't comfortable with me being anywhere but the hospital if something happened.

The Reality of Antepartum Hospitalization: Loss of Control and Autonomy

I truly thought they were wrong. I believed that in a few days, maybe a week at most, they'd realize I was fine and send me home. But as the first week passed, then the second, the reality settled in: I was going to be here for weeks. Possibly a month or more. And suddenly, in my thirties, with a career, a family, and a whole life I'd built. I had control over exactly nothing.

People came into my room at all hours—no privacy, no say in when or why. I was told what would be done to my body. I couldn't leave the hospital. I had very few of my personal belongings. Every aspect of my existence was dictated by medical necessity, hospital schedules, and the unpredictable nature of my condition.

As a psychologist, I recognized immediately what I was experiencing: a profound loss of autonomy and ambiguous loss—grief for something that hasn't fully happened yet, for possibilities that may never materialize, for a future you can't quite mourn because it's still unfolding. I'd taught these concepts to patients. I'd helped them understand that you can grieve the loss of expectations even when the ultimate outcome might still be good.

Knowing the words for what I was feeling didn't make it hurt less. But it did help me know what to do about it.

The Hidden Emotional Impact of Long-Term Hospitalization During Pregnancy

In those first weeks, the grief came in waves. I mourned missing my daughter's bedtime stories and morning snuggles. Random birthday parties. Pool days in the Texas summer heat. Dinners out and even just grocery shopping. These weren't big, dramatic losses. They were the small, ordinary moments that make up a life, and I was watching them all happen without me.

The part that hurt most was what this was doing to my daughter. She couldn't understand why Mommy had to stay at the hospital. She couldn't grasp why I couldn't come home, why our life had been upended, why everything felt so different and scary.

I'd been looking forward to preparing her for this pregnancy—talking about the baby, letting her feel him kick, having her come meet him for the first time at the hospital in that precious, planned way. Instead, she was processing my absence, visiting me in a sterile room, trying to make sense of something that even I struggled to explain.

The guilt was layered and complex. I felt guilty for the time I was missing with her. Guilty that my body had created this situation. And later, guilty for the small flicker of happiness I felt on the day of my C-section—because while I was devastated that my baby had to come out before he was ready, I was also relieved that I was finally getting out of that hospital room.

How to Cope with Pregnancy Complications: The Path to Acceptance

If you're looking for a tidy story about how I processed this experience in neat, sequential stages, I can't give you that. Grief doesn't work that way, and neither does accepting medical complications in pregnancy.

Looking back, I'd estimate I spent about 60% of my time in a state of acceptance and relative calm, 20% in denial and shock, and about 20% each in active grief and anxiety. But these weren't phases—they were states I cycled through, sometimes multiple times in a single day.

In the beginning, I bargained with doctors. I genuinely tried to negotiate my way out of hospitalization, grasping for any loophole, any alternative arrangement. When that didn't work, I blamed myself. I ran through every decision I'd made in the pregnancy—lifting things I shouldn't have, not resting enough—convinced that somehow I'd caused this, even though intellectually I knew that wasn't true. Then something shifted. After about two to three weeks, I found myself settling into a strange kind of calm.

I created a routine. Every morning, I got dressed and made my bed—small acts of autonomy in a place where I controlled so little. I made a calendar and checked off each day, giving myself a visual representation of progress. I caught up on emails and work trainings, trying to feel productive. I watched gloriously trashy TV shows without guilt. I let myself cry when I needed to. I leaned into the exhaustion and tried to catch up on sleep before the baby came. I decorated my room with photos and random dorm room decor. I went on walks around the maternity ward multiple times a day. And I made friends with my neighbor, another woman who was hospitalized antepartum.

Most importantly, I worked deliberately to reframe my experience. Instead of focusing on isolation, I looked for the support I was receiving. Instead of dwelling on the terrifying uncertainty, I tried to feel grateful for the level of medical care available to me and my baby. I practiced what I'd been teaching patients for years: dialectical thinking, the ability to hold two seemingly contradictory truths at once.

I could be angry about being hospitalized AND relieved to be somewhere safe.

I could grieve the pregnancy I'd wanted AND accept the one I was having.

I could feel devastated about what my daughter was going through AND recognize she was surrounded by people who loved her.

I could be terrified about delivering a premature baby AND trust that my medical team would give him the best possible care.

This is radical acceptance—not passive resignation, but an active choice to acknowledge reality as it is rather than fighting against what can't be changed. It doesn't mean you like the situation. It doesn't mean you stop feeling sad or scared. It means you stop exhausting yourself by wishing things were different and instead direct your energy toward coping with what is.

What Being a Psychologist Taught Me (and What It Didn't)

In some ways, being a psychologist made this experience easier. I knew immediately that I needed to feel connected and supported by others. I recognized that I was at high risk for isolation, which could spiral into depression. I understood that my emotions didn't need to make sense or follow a logical pattern—I could give myself permission to feel whatever came up without judgment.

I knew to make friends with nurses and doctors, to engage with them personally, to stay connected to the world outside my hospital room. I knew that the calendar, the routine, the deliberate efforts to maintain some sense of control weren't just superstitious coping mechanisms—they were evidence-based strategies for maintaining mental health during extended medical confinement.

But there were things my training didn't prepare me for. The physical reality of losing autonomy over your own body. The way time moves differently when you're in the same room for weeks. How triggering normal pregnancy announcements and stories would become—how things people said that seemed sweet ("You're so lucky to get this rest!" "At least the baby is okay!") could feel so dismissive and harmful.

I didn't fully understand until I lived it how different everyone's experience truly is. How life-threatening and terrifying pregnancy can be for some people. How hard some of us have to work—sacrificing our comfort, our freedom, our time with other children—just to bring our babies here safely. And how others may never be able to understand that experience, no matter how well-intentioned they are.

What I Wish I'd Known

I don't think you can truly prepare for a long-term antepartum hospitalization. You can pack the right items, line up childcare, organize your work responsibilities—but the emotional reality of it can't be rehearsed. You just have to go in with an open mind and try not to expect anything specific.

But if I could sit down with my past self on that day I was admitted, or with any woman who just learned she'll be hospitalized for the remainder of her pregnancy, here's what I'd want her to know:

You are exactly where you need to be right now. This isn't dramatic. This isn't an overreaction. The sacrifice you're making—your freedom, your comfort, your time with your other children, your normal life—is worth it. Every single day your baby stays inside is one less day they'll likely need in the NICU, and that journey can be even harder than this one.

Your life will go back to normal one day. Right now that feels impossible to believe, but it's true. This will all eventually feel like a bad dream, a strange chapter in your story rather than your entire story.

You can spend all day watching TV or sleeping, and that's okay. You can also try to be productive, to maintain routines, to create structure. Neither approach is better—do whatever helps you get through each day. Give yourself all the grace in the world.

The acceptance you're working toward, the love you have for your baby, the appreciation you feel for your medical team and your support system—all of that can coexist with anger, grief, and sadness. You don't have to choose. You can hold it all at once. That's not contradiction—that's being human in an impossibly difficult situation.

Antepartum Hospitalization and Mental Health: What to Expect

If you're facing hospitalization for the remainder of your pregnancy, you're likely searching for answers about what this experience will be like—not just medically, but emotionally. The mental health impact of antepartum hospitalization is significant and often underestimated.

Research shows that women who experience high-risk pregnancies requiring hospitalization are at increased risk for prenatal depression, anxiety, and later postpartum mental health complications. This isn't surprising when you consider what hospitalization entails: sudden loss of autonomy, separation from family (especially other children), medical uncertainty, physical discomfort, and the stress of knowing your baby may be born prematurely.

How long does antepartum hospitalization typically last? It varies widely depending on your specific condition. Some women are hospitalized for a few days or weeks, while others—like me—spend a month or more confined to a hospital room. The uncertainty itself is difficult; not knowing when or how this will end creates a particular kind of psychological stress.

Is depression normal during bed rest and hospitalization? Feelings of sadness, grief, anxiety, and frustration are absolutely normal responses to this situation. You're experiencing multiple losses simultaneously—loss of control, loss of your normal life, separation from loved ones, and grief over the pregnancy experience you'd hoped for. However, if these feelings become unrelenting, if you can't find any moments of relief or connection, or if you're having thoughts of harming yourself, it's crucial to reach out for professional support immediately.

What helps with coping? Connection is key. Social isolation is one of the biggest risk factors for depression during antepartum hospitalization. Making friends with other women in similar situations, maintaining regular contact with family and friends through calls and visits, and connecting personally with your medical team can all help combat the isolation. Establishing routines, decorating your space, and finding ways to feel productive (even if it's just catching up on emails or reading) also provide a sense of agency in a situation where you control very little.

The good news is that virtual therapy is highly accessible during hospitalization. You don't have to wait until you're in crisis to reach out. Many therapists, including myself, specialize in perinatal mental health and offer telehealth services specifically designed for women navigating high-risk pregnancies and hospitalization.

When Normal Grief Becomes Something More

As a therapist, I'm often asked: How do you know when grief is "normal" versus when you need professional help?

Here's what I tell patients, and what I watched for in myself: Normal grief comes and goes. It's grief that you can be pulled out of—when someone provides support, when something good happens, when you have a moment of genuine laughter or connection. It's grief that, while painful, feels proportionate to what you're experiencing.

The time to seek help is when grief feels unrelenting, when there's no end in sight, when you can't enjoy anything at all. Another good indication is if the people who love you—who have historically been good readers of you—are worried.

But here's the thing: even "normal" grief can benefit from professional support. You don't have to wait until you're drowning to reach out for help. If it feels overwhelming, if you're struggling to cope, if you just want someone who understands to help you process what you're going through—that's reason enough.

Virtual therapy while in the hospital is remarkably accessible. I can say from professional experience that many of my colleagues offer telehealth services specifically for women in situations like this. You don't have to white-knuckle your way through this alone.

Small Things That Made a Big Difference

For anyone facing a long hospitalization, here are the practical strategies that helped me most:

Connect with others in similar situations. Ask your nurses if there are other women on the unit you could meet. My friendship with my neighbor was transformative—someone who truly understood, who could normalize all the little frustrations and victories.

Create visual reminders of progress. My calendar where I checked off each day became something I looked forward to. Seeing how far I'd come helped me believe I could make it through what remained.

Decorate your space. Put up photos everywhere, especially candid moments of you doing things you love with people you love. Make the room feel less like a hospital and more like a space that's yours.

Establish a routine. Get dressed every morning. Make your bed. These small acts of autonomy matter more than you'd think.

Use the time productively if it helps you. Catch up on emails, paperwork, trainings—whatever makes you feel less like you're just waiting and more like you're still engaged with your life.

If you have another child

Bring special toys for hospital visits. A doctor's kit was particularly helpful for my daughter to play and process what was happening.

Share age-appropriate information. Kids pick up on our stress regardless. Giving them some framework for understanding, even if simplified, is usually better than leaving them to imagine the worst.

Give yourself permission to check out. Trash TV, naps, mindless scrolling—if it gets you through the day without causing harm, it's fair game.

You've Got This (Really)

I know that if you're reading this from a hospital bed, from a place of fear and uncertainty about your pregnancy, these words might feel hollow. When you're in it, it's hard to believe that there's an other side, that this intensity won't last forever, that you'll look back on this time with anything other than dread.

But you will get through this. You're already making an amazing sacrifice for your baby, which makes you a great mom already—even before you've met them, even in the midst of feeling angry or scared or resentful about the situation.

The acceptance, the calmness, the perspective—it doesn't all come at once. Some days you'll feel it. Other days you'll feel like you're back at square one. That's not failure. That's the non-linear reality of processing something this difficult.

Be gentle with yourself. Reach out for support. Let people help you. And know that somewhere in Austin, there's a psychologist who understands exactly what you're going through—because she's lived it too.

Common Questions About Antepartum Hospitalization and Mental Health

How long does antepartum hospitalization usually last?

The length of hospitalization varies significantly based on your medical condition. Some women are hospitalized for a few days to a week, while others may be there for several weeks or even months. In my case, I was hospitalized for five weeks from 30 weeks until delivery at 35 weeks. The uncertainty about how long you'll be there can be one of the most challenging psychological aspects—not having a clear end date makes it difficult to mentally prepare or pace yourself emotionally.

What are the signs I need mental health support during hospitalization?

While sadness, anxiety, and grief are normal responses to hospitalization, you should seek professional help if you experience:

• Persistent feelings of hopelessness with no relief, even when receiving support

• Inability to enjoy anything or connect with loved ones

• Thoughts of harming yourself or your baby

• Panic attacks or overwhelming anxiety that interferes with medical care

• Complete emotional numbness or detachment

• Concerns from family members or medical staff about your mental state

• Difficulty sleeping beyond what's caused by medical monitoring (either sleeping all the time or severe insomnia)

Remember: you don't have to be in crisis to benefit from therapy. If it feels overwhelming, that's reason enough to reach out.

Can I do therapy while hospitalized?

Absolutely! Virtual therapy (telehealth) is ideal for women who are hospitalized during pregnancy. You can have therapy sessions right from your hospital bed via video call. Many insurance plans cover telehealth services, and some hospitals even have perinatal mental health specialists on staff or on call. Don't hesitate to ask your medical team about mental health resources—they should be able to connect you with appropriate support.

How can I cope with being separated from my other children during hospitalization?

This is often the most painful part of antepartum hospitalization for mothers. Some strategies that help:

• Schedule regular video calls at consistent times (like bedtime stories)

• Have your children visit as often as hospital policy and your medical condition allow

• Bring special toys for hospital visits (a doctor's kit can help them process what's happening)

• Create a countdown calendar your children can see at home

• Share age-appropriate information so they understand why you're there

• Enlist your support system to maintain your children's routine as much as possible

• Give yourself permission to grieve this time apart—it's a real loss

  
  

Is it normal to feel jealous of people with normal pregnancies?

Yes, absolutely. It's completely normal to feel triggered by pregnancy announcements, baby showers, or stories about uncomplicated births. You're grieving the experience you don't get to have. This doesn't make you a bad person or an ungrateful mother—it makes you human. These feelings can coexist with gratitude for your medical care and love for your baby.

Will I ever feel normal again after this experience?

Yes. While you're in it, it feels like this will be your reality forever. But your life will return to normal—or rather, to a new normal with your baby. This experience will likely always be part of your story, and it may take time to process (sometimes therapy after hospitalization is helpful), but the intensity of this time will fade. One day, this will feel like a strange, difficult chapter rather than your entire story.

What if I felt some relief or even happiness on the day of delivery, even though my baby was premature?

This is more common than you might think, and it doesn't make you a bad mother. It's possible to simultaneously feel relief at finally leaving the hospital AND devastation that your baby has to be born early. Dialectical thinking—holding two seemingly contradictory truths at once—is essential during this time. You can feel multiple things simultaneously, and all of those feelings are valid.# When Pregnancy Doesn't Go as Planned: A Psychologist's Perspective on Accepting Medical Complications

If you're struggling with pregnancy complications, antepartum hospitalization, or perinatal mental health concerns, please know that support is available. Virtual therapy can be particularly helpful during hospitalization, and you don't have to wait until you're in crisis to reach out. You deserve support during this challenging time.