When is it okay to ask a woman if she's pregnant?

Answer: never

A couple of weeks ago a kindly older woman asked me if I was pregnant.

No, I was not pregnant.

No, I am not trying to be pregnant.

Yes, I was wearing a high-waisted rain coat that accentuated my waist line, including the part of my body that once, indeed, was pregnant and subsequently carried my babies, but is not now in any way, shape, or form, carrying a baby now.

I wish I could say that I responded in a kindly manner, that I laughed off her suggestion and looked at my mid-section, jiggling it around like a bowl full of jelly. I wish I could say that I gave a humorous, quick-witted retort and did not take personally her words.

But I did take personally her words.

I could not hide the horror on my face when she asked me if I was expecting. Instead, the world slowed like molasses. I looked at her. I cocked my head to the side. I felt my cheeks flame. I maybe even looked down at my rain coat and at my apparently protruding belly, before looking back up again.

“No, I’m not pregnant,” I finally said.

I think she uttered an apology, soon followed by an invitation to join her ministry committee.

But her words, that question, that particular statement, it stung.

Let me spell it out, if you have not already been made aware of this reality: It is never okay to ask a woman if she’s pregnant.

The following illustration (which I originally saw on social media and later attributed to this thread on Quora) puts it plainly:

Based on the picture above, the high-waisted raincoat probably put my belly in the category of looking favorably like the third or fourth picture from the left. But my desire to wear empire-waist attire does not give you permission to ask about my sex life (or my procreating desire for that matter), nor does it warrant anyone permission to ask a question which is most personal.

So many women, myself included, struggle with body image. Try as we might to shake off the words labeling us “too much,” “too little,” or “not enough,” our bodies oftentimes fit right into these labels and equations.

Take also the woman who desperately wants to be pregnant, but struggles with infertility. Take the woman who carries around extra baby weight in the “4th trimester,” because her body just delivered a child and is still recovering. Take the woman whose body has changed since she was a young, virginal teenager, whose weight puts her at risk of pre-diabetes, though she cannot seem to lose any weight. Take the woman who does not want to have children, the woman who cannot have children, the woman who is not in the type of relationship that would yield her any children.

If a woman is under the age of fifty and seems to be of child-bearing age, society tends to believe it okay to inquire — to ask if she is pregnant, to take a microscope to the thing most personal to her, to wonder about a thing which is not theirs to know in the first place.

The list goes on, just as the stories and examples go on. Maybe it’s just me, but to all of these women (and undoubtedly, to myself), this is not a question we need ever be asked.

If we are pregnant, chances are we’ll tell you! We won’t be able to shut our trap about the good news: we’ll stick our bellies out just to get a 12-week shot, because there’s a little tiny human the size of a lime growing on our insides!

But if we don’t readily volunteer the information to you, don’t ask.

It’s not your body, nor is it your story to know.

Love you enough to say this—

c.