Chapter Text
The house was quiet, bathed in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun filtering through the blinds. Taylor sat curled up on the couch in a soft blanket, her hands resting gently on her belly. Fourteen weeks. She was finally in her second trimester—a milestone that should’ve brought immense relief. Yet, as she stared at the blank television screen, her thoughts swirled, heavy with everything that had transpired. She and Travis still didn’t know the sex of the baby; during the last ultrasound, the little one had been turned in a way that made it impossible to tell. But Taylor found she wasn’t too worried about it. After everything they’d been through, the risks and uncertainties of the past weeks had shifted her perspective. Boy or girl, it didn’t matter—she just wanted their baby to be healthy and safe. That was all she needed to feel a spark of joy in the middle of the chaos.
Tonight should’ve been the closing night of The Eras Tour. She could almost hear the crowd chanting her name, their voices a symphony of love and excitement, the sound vibrating through her very soul. She imagined herself on that stage, giving her final bow during Karma, drenched in sweat but glowing with the satisfaction of completing something monumental. The image was so vivid it hurt. Instead, she was here, confined to bed rest under strict medical orders, trying to navigate the storm her life had become.
Weeks of immobility and sedation to keep her calm had left her feeling disconnected from reality. She hadn’t stepped on a stage in months, hadn’t felt the rush of adrenaline or the warmth of the crowd’s embrace. The Taylor who thrived on creativity and connection now felt like a shell of herself, buried under layers of frustration, sadness, and fear.
And yet, it wasn’t just the physical confinement or the missed milestones that weighed on her. Against her better judgment, she had done something she’d always warned herself never to do: she Googled her own name.
What a mistake that had been.
She had seen the love and support from her fans—messages that brought tears to her eyes as they expressed outrage over the invasion of her privacy and sent well-wishes for her health. Articles were being written condemning the gross violation of her rights and calling for stricter protections for medical records. But amidst the love, there was also hate—relentless, brutal attacks.
People dissected her life as if it were a spectacle, hurling accusations and judgments. Some claimed she was milking the situation for sympathy; others mocked her for being “too emotional” or “weak.” The vitriol was endless, and though Taylor had learned to grow a thick skin over the years, this was different. This wasn’t just about her music or her relationships; it was about her child, her grief.
And then there were the comments about her appearance—unforgiving and brutal. People speculated they knew she was pregnant because of how “fat” she looked, with others comparing old photos to scrutinize every pound she’d gained, every curve that wasn’t there before. "She let herself go," one comment read. Another cruelly stated, "Pregnant or not, she needs to stop eating so much."
Each remark echoed in her mind long after she’d closed the browser, leaving her raw and exposed. She had spent years battling her relationship with food and her body, clawing her way out of the self-destructive cycle of eating disorders. But reading those words felt like the flick of a switch—an old, poisonous voice in her head reawakening. You’re not good enough. You’re too much. You need to shrink yourself to be acceptable. It whispered relentlessly, making her second-guess everything she thought she’d conquered.
She hated that those voices had returned, even momentarily. She hated how quickly shame rushed back into her life. But what broke her the most was the fear of passing that kind of pain down to her child—a fear she could barely admit to herself.
As if that weren’t enough, the commentary on her personal life was just as vicious. The fact that she and Travis weren’t married was now ammunition for critics who seemed to revel in shaming her. She’d been called every vile name imaginable—"irresponsible," "reckless," and the one that stung the most: "slut."
“She can’t even bother to get married before having a baby?” one tweet read, liked tens of thousands of times. Others ridiculed her values, claiming she was a hypocrite for speaking about love and integrity in her music while “flaunting her immorality.”
It didn’t matter that she and Travis had talked about marriage and that their engagement was a private, cherished secret shared only with those closest to them. It didn’t matter that their love was real, steady, and built on a foundation of mutual respect. To the world, she had become a symbol of everything they wanted to hate.
Taylor sat with her hands shaking, her mind a battlefield of conflicting emotions—anger, sadness, and, worst of all, guilt. Guilt that somehow, by simply existing, she had given the world the ammunition it needed to tear her down.
And then there was Joe.
Two weeks ago, her ex had given an interview that threw gasoline on an already raging fire. She hadn’t watched it—Tree and Travis had ensured she didn’t—but the snippets she read were enough to gut her. When asked about the leaked news of her past miscarriage, Joe had taken the opportunity to paint himself as the victim, his words carefully chosen to evoke sympathy and twist the knife.
"It was a difficult time for both of us," he had said, his voice laced with somber self-pity in the clip she’d stumbled upon while scrolling. "But it was especially hard for me because I felt so shut out. Taylor… she has this way of shutting down, you know? And I tried to be there for her, but she just pushed me away. It was heartbreaking, really."
Heartbreaking? The word made her stomach churn with a familiar ache of rage and despair. How dare he? Joe hadn’t just been emotionally distant during one of the most traumatic times in her life—he had been dismissive, impatient, and even cruel. He had treated her grief as an inconvenience, rolling his eyes when she’d cried too much and avoiding her altogether when she’d needed him most. He had made her feel like the miscarriage was her fault, like she had somehow failed at the one thing that was supposed to bring them closer.
She remembered how cold his voice had been when she’d finally worked up the courage to tell him about the miscarriage. She had been sitting on their couch, her hands trembling as she clutched a tissue. Her voice cracked when she explained what the doctor had told her, and all she’d wanted was for him to hold her, to tell her they would get through it together.
Instead, Joe had stared at her with an expression she could only describe as indifference, his tone devoid of comfort or warmth. “Well, I guess it just wasn’t meant to be, huh?”
The words had sliced through her, leaving her breathless with disbelief. She had felt so alone in that moment, so utterly abandoned by the person who was supposed to be her partner. And now, hearing him frame himself as a supportive boyfriend who had been "shut out" made her feel like she was drowning all over again.
The fallout from his interview was immediate and brutal. His words gave her detractors fresh ammunition, and social media lit up with comments accusing her of being cold, ungrateful, and incapable of maintaining relationships. "No wonder he left her," one comment read. "She probably treated him like crap, too." Others called her a narcissist, accusing her of always playing the victim in her songs while driving away "perfect boyfriends" in real life.
But the worst part wasn’t the public reaction—it was the private devastation. She had spent months blaming herself for how their relationship had ended, questioning if she really had been too much, too emotional, too broken. She had worked so hard to heal from those wounds, to let go of the guilt he had made her carry. And now, it was all being dragged back to the surface, as raw and painful as it had been the first time.
Holding herself together was becoming increasingly difficult.
Taylor’s hands tightened around the blanket as her thoughts drifted to Travis. He was trying so hard to stay strong for her, but she could see the cracks forming. The situation was taking a toll on him, too. He was the one dealing with the legal battle against the nurse who had leaked her medical records and the clinic that had failed to protect them. Alongside Tree, he had been tirelessly working to ensure justice was served, but it was draining him.
Football had always been his escape—a place where he could channel his frustrations and focus on the game. But even that wasn’t the same anymore. She’d overheard him on the phone with his brother Jason, talking about how distracted he’d been during practices, how the weight of everything at home was seeping into his work. It broke her heart to know she was part of what was breaking him. Adding to the complexity of their situation, Jason and Kylie, were expecting their fourth baby. Out of respect for everything she and Travis were going through, they had chosen to announce their pregnancy to the family in a more private and discreet way, even taking the time to speak individually with them beforehand. While she deeply appreciated their thoughtfulness, it only made her feel worse—like her struggles were casting a shadow over someone else’s happiness. She hated being the source of so much worry and disruption, especially for people she loved, and the thought of burdening others with her pain was something she found almost unbearable.
And yet, she felt powerless to help. Her doctors had made it clear: stress was the enemy. Any emotional upheaval could jeopardize her pregnancy. So, Travis had taken on the burden of shielding her from the chaos, but she knew it was eating away at him.
Her mother, Andrea, had been a constant presence, hovering with maternal concern, while Tree managed the media firestorm and legal proceedings. But Taylor had been reluctant to open up to anyone fully. The idea of talking to a therapist, as recommended by her doctors, had been daunting. She hated the thought of a virtual session, fearing it could be recorded or leaked. And inviting a stranger into her home felt too vulnerable when she was already so raw.
It wasn’t until Travis and her mother had insisted—practically begged—that she finally agreed to schedule an in-person session for the next day. The idea still made her stomach churn, and the thought of laying her soul bare felt almost unbearable. But deep down, she knew she couldn’t keep bottling everything up. This was her attempt to take a step forward, even if it was shaky—her quiet acknowledgment that she was trying.
A few weeks earlier, in an attempt to regain some control over the narrative, with Travis sitting beside her offering silent support, she opened her phone, crafted a heartfelt message, and posted it as an open letter to her Instagram—a way to speak her truth on her own terms:
"Over the past few days, I’ve been grappling with emotions I never imagined I’d have to process publicly. Parts of my life that I wanted to keep private—sacred—were stolen from me and shared without my consent. It’s hard to describe how it feels to have such personal, intimate pieces of your story exposed to the world.
Yes, I am pregnant, and while this is something Travis and I were waiting to share in our own time, on our own terms, it’s true. This little life is a blessing we hold so dearly. But along with the joy of this new chapter, the news also revealed something deeply painful: my miscarriage. A loss I carried silently, even from some of the people closest to me, until I could find the strength to share it in my own way. And now, the world knows before I could even find the words.
What some of you may not know is that Travis and I have been engaged for months. We’ve been waiting for the right moment to share this beautiful step in our journey. Our engagement wasn’t just a promise of a future together but also a reminder of the love and commitment we’ve built over time. To have such a sacred piece of our story taken from us and announced to the world before we could is devastating.
To say I feel violated is an understatement. This invasion of privacy has caused me immense pain, but I want to be clear: measures are being taken. Legal action is underway against those responsible for this breach, both the individual who unlawfully accessed my medical records and the institutions that allowed it to happen. Privacy is a right, not a privilege, and I am committed to holding those accountable to ensure this doesn’t happen to anyone else.
Even in this heartbreak, I have found incredible support. To my family, my friends, and to all of you—your kindness, your love, and your understanding have been a lifeline. You’ve reminded me of the beauty in humanity when it feels like the world is too heavy.
Right now, I’m focusing on what truly matters: my health, this baby, and the incredible people I have around me. While this chapter didn’t begin the way I envisioned, I know it’s part of a bigger story—one filled with resilience, love, and hope.
Thank you for standing by me and allowing me the grace to navigate this moment. Please remember to hold space for kindness and respect, not just for me, but for everyone whose lives are touched by these stories."
Pouring her heart out to the world had been cathartic in some ways, allowing her to release the emotions that had been building up inside, but it hadn’t erased the pain or the deep sense of violation she felt. Sharing her story brought a fleeting sense of relief, like a weight momentarily lifted, yet the wounds left by the invasion of her privacy and the grief of her losses remained raw and tender. Each word she wrote was a step toward reclaiming her narrative, a way to find strength in vulnerability, but it was also a stark reminder of how exposed and unprotected she had been. The act of opening up to millions felt both like an act of defiance and surrender—fighting for her dignity while acknowledging the profound hurt she could not yet fully heal from.
Her eyes drifted to the framed photo on the side table—a candid shot of her and Travis taken during one of the happier moments of their relationship. She traced the edge of the frame with her finger, her mind replaying their recent conversations. He had been her rock through all of this, but she couldn’t ignore the toll it was taking on him. She wanted to be stronger for him, to ease his burden, but she didn’t know how.
With a deep breath, she stood up and walked to the window. The view of the Kansas City skyline was calming in its own way, a reminder that life continued outside the walls of her house.
“Taylor?” Travis’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. He stood in the doorway, his expression a mix of concern and love. “You okay?”
She nodded, though her chest felt tight. “Just… thinking.”
He crossed the room, wrapping his arms around her. His presence was a balm to her frayed nerves, grounding her in the here and now.
“We’ll get through this,” he murmured, his lips brushing against her hair.
She leaned into him, her voice barely above a whisper. “I hate feeling so helpless.”
“You’re not helpless,” he said firmly, pulling back to look into her eyes. “You’re doing everything you can to keep yourself and our baby safe. That’s not helpless—that’s strength.”
Her eyes welled with tears, and she blinked them back quickly. “I just wish things were different. Tonight was supposed to be the closing night of the tour. I was supposed to be out there, doing what I love, instead of…”
Travis cupped her face gently, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “I know. And it sucks. But you’ll get back there. Right now, this is what matters—you, me, our baby. Everything else can wait.”
Taylor nodded, letting his words sink in. He was right. As much as she mourned the life she had temporarily set aside, she knew she had to prioritize what truly mattered.
The afternoon light streamed gently through the sheer curtains of her Kansas City home —now hers and Travis’s shared sanctuary—casting long shadows on the living room walls. Taylor sat curled up on the couch, her knees drawn to her chest and a cup of untouched chamomile tea resting on the coffee table. Her phone lay face down next to it, silenced and ignored. She wasn’t sure if she was ready for this. The psychologist, Dr. Elena Martinez, was scheduled to arrive any minute. Taylor hadn’t stepped into a therapist’s office before—and now, the therapist was stepping into hers.
The doorbell rang, and Taylor’s heart skipped. She stood, smoothing her sweater and glancing nervously at the mirror by the entryway. Taking a steadying breath, she opened the door. Dr. Martinez greeted her with a warm smile. She was in her early forties, with kind brown eyes and an air of calm that made Taylor feel slightly less tense.
“Hi, Taylor. It’s lovely to meet you,” Dr. Martinez said, extending her hand.
Taylor shook it, her grip firm but her nerves palpable. “Hi. Come in. Thank you for coming here.”
“Of course,” Dr. Martinez replied, stepping inside. “It’s a beautiful home.”
“Thank you,” Taylor murmured, leading her to the living room. “Can I get you anything? Tea? Water?”
“I’m fine, but thank you for offering,” the psychologist said as she settled into an armchair across from the couch. “Let’s take this at your pace. How are you feeling about starting today?”
Taylor hesitated, sitting back down and tucking her legs beneath her. “Nervous, I guess. I’ve… never done anything like this before. I probably should have a long time ago.”
Dr. Martinez’s expression was gentle. “You’re here now, and that’s what matters. Starting therapy can feel overwhelming, especially when you’ve been carrying so much on your own. We’ll go at a pace that feels right for you. Why don’t we start by talking about what brought you to this moment?”
Taylor fidgeted with the hem of her sweater, her voice quiet at first. “I’ve been under a lot of… stress. It’s not just one thing, though. It’s… everything.”
Dr. Martinez nodded, her posture open and inviting. “Let’s start with the biggest piece on your mind right now. Whatever feels most pressing to you.”
Taylor exhaled shakily, her gaze dropping to her lap. “I’m thirteen weeks pregnant. And… it’s been complicated.” She paused, her voice thickening. “I had a miscarriage before. A few years ago. It… it broke me.”
Dr. Martinez’s expression softened further. “I’m so sorry you went through that. Losing a pregnancy is a profound loss, and it can leave deep emotional wounds. It’s understandable that this pregnancy might bring up a lot of fears and feelings for you.”
Taylor nodded, her throat tightening. “It’s like I’m constantly waiting for something to go wrong. Every little twinge, every cramp… I’m terrified it’s happening again. And with everything else that’s happened recently, it’s hard to focus on the good. I should be happy—we made it past the three-month mark. But instead, I’m… scared. And angry.”
“Angry about the invasion of your privacy?” Dr. Martinez prompted gently.
Taylor’s eyes darkened, and she nodded. “Yes. When the news leaked about this pregnancy and… about the miscarriage, it felt like someone had stolen something sacred from me. Those were my stories to tell, my moments to share. And instead, the world knows everything. People dissect my life as if it’s a public exhibit. They’ve said horrible things… about my body, about how I’m not married, calling me a slut.” She swallowed hard, her voice breaking. “And it’s not just about me anymore. It’s about this baby. I feel like I’ve already failed at protecting my baby.”
Dr. Martinez leaned forward slightly, her voice steady. “You’re dealing with so much right now, Taylor. The grief of losing control over your story, the fear for your baby, and the immense pressure from public scrutiny. Those feelings are valid. But protecting your baby doesn’t mean shielding them from every word said about you. It’s about creating a safe, loving environment for them, which you’re already doing.”
Taylor’s eyes glistened with tears, but she didn’t wipe them away. “It doesn’t feel like enough.”
“It’s more than enough,” Dr. Martinez assured her. “You’re taking steps to care for yourself, which is one of the most important things you can do for your baby. But let’s go back to something you mentioned earlier. You said you’re angry and scared. Can we talk more about the anger?”
Taylor’s jaw tightened, her expression a storm of emotions barely held together. “I’m angry at… everyone. The nurse who leaked my information. The clinic for not protecting my privacy. The media for running with it. And Joe…” Her voice faltered as his name passed her lips, a bitter aftertaste she couldn’t swallow down. “He gave an interview, spinning some fake victim narrative about how the miscarriage affected him. He made it sound like he was the supportive boyfriend, the one hurting the most, and I was the cold one who pushed him away. It’s all lies.”
Dr. Martinez tilted her head slightly, her tone soft but firm, as if encouraging Taylor to peel back the layers. “What was the reality?”
Taylor let out a hollow, almost incredulous laugh, her hands curling into trembling fists against her lap. “The reality? He was cold. Detached. When I told him I’d lost the baby, he just sat there—blank. He said, ‘I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.’ That was it. No holding me, no tears, no comfort. He didn’t even look at me. I felt like I was grieving alone in a room full of silence. And now he’s out there acting like he was the one who suffered, painting himself as some grieving hero.”
The words tumbled out, raw and jagged, as though a dam had finally cracked. Taylor’s voice wavered, her breaths shallow. “At the time, I convinced myself he was just… bad at emotions. That he wasn’t intentionally hurting me, you know? I told myself that he loved me, just in his own way. I thought maybe I was asking for too much. That it was my fault for not being stronger, quieter… less needy.”
Dr. Martinez’s expression remained steady. “It seems like you’re shouldering blame for something that was never your responsibility to begin with.”
Taylor’s head dipped, her voice shaking under the weight of long-buried truth. “I tried so hard to be the version of myself that wouldn’t ‘bother’ him. I stopped sharing things that mattered to me—my pain, my dreams—because every time I opened up, it felt like I was being met with a wall. I could feel him pulling away, but I still thought if I just loved him better, I could fix it. I would’ve done anything to feel close to him again, and instead, I just… disappeared into myself. I hated who I became when I was with him. But leaving?” Her voice caught. “Leaving felt like failure.”
Dr. Martinez leaned forward slightly, her tone gentle yet unwavering. “That sounds like a painful and emotionally isolating experience, Taylor. It’s common in emotionally abusive relationships to take on the blame—convincing yourself that you’re the problem because the alternative feels unbearable. But the truth is, his dismissiveness, his neglect, his inability to hold space for you during such a traumatic time… those are forms of emotional abuse.”
Taylor flinched at the word, as if it had struck a nerve she didn’t know existed. “Abuse?” She looked up, her wide eyes searching Dr. Martinez’s for something to cling to. “I—I don’t know if I’d call it that. He didn’t yell at me. He didn’t hit me. He just… didn’t see me. I thought we just weren’t compatible. That we were mismatched.”
“Sometimes emotional abuse isn’t loud or obvious,” Dr. Martinez replied carefully. “It can be quiet—disguised as indifference, stonewalling, or neglect. But the damage it leaves is real. Dismissing your emotions, making you feel like you’re too much, too sensitive… those are ways people minimize and manipulate. It doesn’t have to be screaming or violence for it to hurt you deeply.”
Taylor’s throat tightened as she processed the words. Her mind resisted the label—abusive—and yet, a part of her felt seen in a way she hadn’t before. She had spent so long convincing herself that Joe’s behavior was something she could fix, or worse, something she deserved. To hear it framed so starkly was like standing on the edge of a cliff, staring into a truth she wasn’t ready to confront.
“I just…” Her voice cracked. “I didn’t want to think of him that way. I loved him. I wanted to love him. And he was so good at making me believe that everything wrong between us was my fault. If I’d just been stronger, happier, less me—”
Dr. Martinez interrupted gently, “It’s not your fault, Taylor. You loved him, and you trusted him to care for you emotionally. The fact that he didn’t—that he let you carry all that pain alone—is a reflection of him, not you.”
Taylor swallowed hard, the lump in her throat almost unbearable. The silence stretched for a moment before she whispered, “I’ve never said any of this out loud before. I don’t even know how to begin to forgive myself for staying as long as I did.”
“Forgiving yourself doesn’t mean dismissing what happened,” Dr. Martinez said softly. “It means recognizing that you did the best you could with the tools you had. You deserve kindness and compassion—for what you endured and for what you’re carrying now. Healing takes time, and you don’t have to do it alone. Have you talked to anyone about this? Maybe Travis?”
Taylor’s shoulders relaxed slightly at the mention of his name, though her expression remained conflicted. “Travis knows about the miscarriage. I told him. And—well, I told him some things about Joe, too. Not everything, though. I don’t even know if I understand everything about it. How could I explain it to him when I can’t even make sense of it myself?”
Her voice trembled, frustration simmering beneath her words. “I tried to tell him the basics—how Joe was during it all, how… cold he was. But even as I was saying it, I kept second-guessing myself. Was it really that bad? Was I being dramatic? I still don’t know. And I didn’t want to dump the whole mess on him. He doesn’t deserve that. He’s already done so much for me, and I…” She let out a shaky breath, her eyes darting downward. “I feel so guilty about all of it. Like I’m adding this weight onto him that he shouldn’t have to carry.”
“Why guilty?” Dr. Martinez’s voice remained soft, encouraging Taylor to keep going.
Taylor hesitated, her fingers knotting together as she tried to put the swirling guilt into words. “Because… he’s already doing so much. With everything going on, Travis has been handling the lawsuit, protecting me from the media, and trying to keep our life together. And on top of that, I know he’s worried about me—about the stress, about how it’s all affecting the baby. I feel like I’m just adding to his burden.”
Dr. Martinez tilted her head, her gaze warm and understanding. “It sounds like you’re carrying a lot of guilt for things that aren’t your fault. Let’s unpack that. Do you feel like you’re responsible for what’s happening to him?”
Taylor nodded, her voice trembling. “Yes. If I hadn’t gotten pregnant, if the news hadn’t leaked… none of this would’ve happened. He wouldn’t be so stressed. He’d be focused on his career, doing what he loves, without all this weighing him down. Instead, he’s stuck cleaning up my mess.”
Dr. Martinez leaned forward slightly, her expression firm but compassionate. “Taylor, this isn’t your mess. The invasion of your privacy, the cruel words from strangers, the way the media spun this—none of it is your fault. You didn’t choose for any of this to happen. And Travis, from everything you’ve said, sounds like someone who loves you deeply. Love isn’t about keeping score or avoiding burdens. It’s about partnership. He’s choosing to stand by you because he wants to, not because he has to.”
Taylor’s lips parted slightly, her chest tightening. “But what if it’s too much for him? What if he wakes up one day and decides this isn’t worth it?”
Dr. Martinez’s gaze softened. “That fear is valid, especially given what you’ve been through in the past. Emotional neglect can leave us questioning our worth and whether we’re too much for someone to handle. But you’re not too much, Taylor. And from what you’ve shared about Travis, he seems like the kind of person who’s all in—no matter how hard things get. Have you talked to him about these fears?”
Taylor shook her head. “No. I don’t want to add more to his plate.”
“Sometimes the best way to strengthen a relationship is through vulnerability,” Dr. Martinez said gently. “Being honest about your fears doesn’t mean adding to his stress. It means inviting him to understand you better. And Travis sounds like someone who’d want to be there for those conversations.”
Taylor nodded slowly, the weight of the psychologist’s words settling over her. “Maybe you’re right,” she said softly.
Dr. Martinez gave her a small, encouraging smile. “Let’s shift gears for a moment. Earlier, you mentioned the comments about your body and how they’ve affected you. Can you tell me more about that?”
Taylor stiffened slightly, her gaze falling to her hands. “I… I thought I was past all that. For years, I struggled with my body image, with feeling like I wasn’t enough. Being in the public eye only made it worse. I worked so hard to get to a place where I didn’t let the noise get to me. But now…” She swallowed hard. “Now, it feels like I’m right back there. People saying I’m ‘getting fat’ or ‘obviously pregnant.’ And the worst part is…”
Dr. Martinez waited patiently as Taylor took a deep, trembling breath.
“The worst part is it’s triggered that voice again,” Taylor admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “The one that says, ‘If you just stop eating, you’ll feel in control.’ I hate that voice. I hate that it’s still there. But it’s been so loud lately.”
The psychologist’s face remained calm, though her eyes reflected a deep empathy. “That voice can be incredibly persuasive, especially during times of stress. But it’s also a liar, Taylor. You’ve worked hard to quiet it before, and that strength is still within you. What steps have you taken in the past to overcome it?”
Taylor exhaled shakily, thinking back. “I had routines. I’d write affirmations, focus on the things my body could do instead of how it looked. But right now, it feels like I’m too overwhelmed to even try. Everything feels… heavy.”
“It’s okay to feel that way,” Dr. Martinez assured her. “You’re carrying so much right now—more than anyone should have to. But acknowledging the struggle is the first step toward healing. And you don’t have to do it alone. I’d like us to work on strategies together to help you reclaim that sense of control in a healthier way.”
Taylor nodded, her voice soft. “Okay.”
Dr. Martinez leaned back slightly, her posture still open and supportive. “You mentioned earlier that you feel like you’ve lost control over your narrative—both with this pregnancy and the miscarriage. Can you tell me more about how that’s impacted you?”
Taylor’s jaw tightened, and she blinked against the tears threatening to fall. “I had it all planned out. Telling our families, our friends… I wanted it to be special. For this pregnancy, I imagined giving them little gifts, baby shoes or onesies that said ‘best grandma’ or ‘best uncle.’ I wanted to see their faces light up when they figured it out. But that was stolen from me. Instead, they found out through headlines and whispers. I didn’t get to share it with them—I had to manage their shock instead.”
Her voice broke, and she wiped at her eyes. “And the miscarriage… I didn’t even want to talk about it. I wasn’t ready. Now the whole world knows, and they’ve twisted it into something ugly. It’s like I can’t keep anything sacred anymore.”
Dr. Martinez let the silence settle for a moment before speaking. “It’s devastating to have such intimate experiences taken from you and shared without your consent. It’s no wonder you feel violated and powerless. But I want to remind you that those moments are still yours, even if the world knows about them. The meaning they hold doesn’t change because someone else tried to exploit them. What do you think would help you reclaim some of that power?”
Taylor considered the question, her brows furrowing. “I don’t know. I guess… just being able to focus on the good. On the baby, on Travis. But it’s hard when the noise is so loud.”
“It makes sense,” Dr. Martinez said gently. “One step we can take is finding ways to quiet that noise, whether that means setting boundaries with social media, leaning on your support system, or creating moments of joy that are just for you and your family.”
Taylor nodded slowly, a faint glimmer of hope flickering in her chest. “I think I’d like that.”
As the session continued, Taylor found herself opening up more about her fears, her frustrations, and her hopes. By the end, she felt lighter, as if she’d set down a piece of the heavy load she’d been carrying for so long.
“I’m proud of you for taking this step,” Dr. Martinez said as they wrapped up. “Therapy is a process, and healing takes time. But you’re not alone in this.”
Taylor managed a small smile. “Thank you. I think… I think this was a good start.”
“It was,” Dr. Martinez agreed warmly. “Same time next week?”
“Yeah,” Taylor said, her voice steadier now. “Same time next week.”
As she walked Dr. Martinez to the door, Taylor felt a tentative sense of peace. It wasn’t much, but it was something. And for now, that was enough.
As the evening settled into quiet, Taylor found herself sitting at the piano in the corner of the room. Her fingers hovered over the keys, hesitant, before she began to play a soft, familiar melody. Music had always been her refuge, her way of processing the world.
Travis watched from the couch, a small smile tugging at his lips. In that moment, as her voice filled the room with a raw, unfiltered vulnerability, he saw not just the woman he loved, but the strength she carried even in her darkest moments.
And for the first time in weeks, Taylor felt a glimmer of herself returning—a reminder that even in the face of adversity, her story wasn’t over yet. It was just beginning a new chapter.