Why I Don’t Post Content of My Baby on Social Media

I am the last generation whose baby pictures exist in an old dusty photo album sitting on a bookshelf. Every blue moon, my mom whips out the album so she and my other relatives or friends can coo (or point and laugh) at a much smaller and shyer version of myself. I like it like this. Although embarrassing, it’s intimate and perhaps even — special.

25 years later, children are plastered all over social media. Monthly updates, baby’s “firsts”, and even delivery room pictures are shared instantly. Babies I don’t personally know fill my feed as mini IG models in “sponsored posts” for clothes, diapers, and carriers. Mothers today can build social media empires off of family-centric posts and heartfelt instagram captions. Admittedly, my favorite YouTube channel is about a vegan mom living in Maui with her three beautiful babies. I wouldn’t be the mother I am today without the inspiration of these mothers. However, I can’t help but feel like I am intruding on their personal lives. Why should I, stranger from the internet, know their child’s full name or what their first words were?

When my son was born, I started thinking deeply about privacy. It was no longer my life, but ours. Would he want to have his childhood on public display? Would he want my random old classmate from high school to know what his first words were? When he took his first steps? Or even, his name? Maybe the answer will be yes. But he isn’t even aware that he’s a human being yet, let alone what social media is. He can’t give me consent. He can’t give his say.

Knowing that what goes on the internet stays on the internet, I can’t justify sharing his baby pictures with the world. If my son someday chooses online anonymity, I want to grant him that. No amount of “likes”, comments, or convenience could allow me to take that option away from him. His identity on the internet is his to foster, not mine.

As the online world becomes ever increasingly its own social behemoth, I practice caution with what I divulge. I know can’t protect my son from everything. Chances are he won’t care that I did or didn’t post about him. Maybe he will even be disappointed that there’s not an archive to look back on later in his life. I simply hope that he will understand that I wanted him to choose. That this is my personal choice as the person who speaks on his behalf. A choice that’s understandably not for everyone. A choice that’s met with the occasional eye roll or “ok Jamakea, you’ve gone off the deep end” look. But that’s okay. Part of being a mom is accepting that you’ll look crazy sometimes. That what you think is best will be met with speculation and eye rolls. It’s part of the package.

I already have thousands of pictures of my son. Our camera rolls are bursting at the seams. I message a photo of him to someone at least daily. I mail prints to faraway aunties and grandparents. Our walls are covered with his happy little face. 25 years from now, he may not have a Facebook album to look back on but at least I will be able to embarrass him by whipping out that old dusty photo album.

Why Postpartum is a B!tch

They warned me about pregnancy. The swollen ankles. The incessant midnight cravings. The inability to sleep and bend over to tie my shoes.

They warned me about giving birth. The “ring of fire”. The contractions. The tearing.

But no one warned me about new motherhood’s ugly stepchild; postpartum. No, I don’t have postpartum depression and I have so much empathy for the new mamas who have to deal with that on top of everything else.

What’s everything else?

  • Baby blues.
  • No sleep AT ALL.
  • Wearing adult diapers.
  • Going #2 without your ass ripping apart.
  • Cracked and bleeding nipples.
  • Mastitis.
  • Mom guilt (lots of it!).
  • Worrying about keeping your baby alive.
  • Night sweats.
  • Hair loss.
  • Hemorrhoids.
  • Chubby new mom pooch.

And that’s just to name a few.

Two weeks after I gave birth, I knew something wasn’t right “down there”. The sutures were poking through the skin. It was discolored. It burned every time I peed. I ended up having to hop in the shower or bath every time I wanted to go pee to alleviate the sting for 2 weeks — you should’ve seen that month’s water bill.

I visited the emergency room twice and the clinic 5 times all within the span of 2 weeks. It took five physicians (two OB’s and three family medicine physicians) to discover that I was allergic to the vicryl sutures used after birth. My body was rejecting them.

At 9 weeks postpartum, I was rolled into the OR to remove the sutures and a considerable amount of tissue. When I was supposed to be gearing up to resume intimacy with my SO again, I was instead starting my recovery from scratch all over again.

My postpartum recovery has challenged me more than pregnancy and labor combined. I no longer feel like my body is my own. I no longer feel that my body is acting right. With pregnancy, you at least know that’s it going to end at some point. During postpartum, all your physical (and emotional) struggles seem like they’ll last forever. All while you’re trying to learn how to care for another beautiful and helpless human being.

TLDR; Pregnant women are doted on. New moms receive flowers and wine at the hospital after their babies are born. But those moms in postpartum are forgotten while they are enduring the most challenging phase of all. If you know a new mama; hit her up and remind her that she’s amazing.

My Birth Story: When Nothing Goes As Planned

My son was due on a Friday in April.

That was the longest day of my pregnancy, by far. An uncharacteristically hot week had started to melt all the clouds in Portland. I was hot. Uncomfortable. Moody. And like most other incredibly pregnant women– I was DONE.

Throughout my entire pregnancy, I had one goal in mind: a natural birth in a clinical environment. The mentioning of epidurals and/or narcotics was met with dismay and disgust. Surely, I’d be able to birth my child naturally. My mom had. Her mom had. My dad’s mom had. I was healthy, strong, and determined. Women have been doing this for thousands of years, right?!


The Saturday after my due date started out as a normal day. That week, I walked 2.0 miles a day. I ate pineapple and pizza. I did Asian squats. I had sex. I did everything that was even mildly correlated with inducing labor. Ironically, it was in a matinee showing of the Avengers: Infinity War that I would start to feel contractions. At most, they were uncomfortable period-like cramps. But that would soon end.

My contractions became closer together until they plateaued at 6-7 minutes apart, lasting for 45-50 seconds. Close, but not close enough to the meet the admission requirement for the hospital. For the rest of the day, I tensed up in pain intermittently as I flipped channels and rocked on my birthing ball.

At 2AM, Dan Kim called the hospital. After a painful 20 minute ride through ironic road construction, I arrived in triage. After an unbearable cervical check, I measured at only 3cm dilated. I had 2cm to go before I was to be admitted. My reaction: this is fucking bullshit.

For the next 3 hours, I wandered around the birth center like a waddling fat penguin trying to get my son to move lower. At 7AM, three hours after arriving and 18 hours after my first contraction: I was admitted. I was writhing in pain. I couldn’t sit. I couldn’t stand. I couldn’t lay down. I couldn’t breathe.

I asked for narcotics.

I was heartbroken. My “natural birth” had ended before it had even begun…


I labored for several hours into Sunday morning. Every profane word was spewed out of my mouth at an alarming volume. I labored in the tub. I labored standing up. I labored on all fours. It felt like a bomb was detonating in slow motion within my womb and that all of my limbs were slowly being projected from my abdomen. The relief from the narcotics were laughable.

When I made it past 30 hours of laboring, I started to wonder how I’d be able to make it through. I hadn’t eaten. I hadn’t slept in 2 days. My morale was low considering I had accepted narcotics. My birth plan was going out the window. So, naturally…

I asked for an epidural.


The epidural felt like a bee sting compared to my contractions. Within an hour, I was falling asleep with the giant peanut between my legs. I made jokes. I rubbed my leg without any sensation of it being my leg. I watched Naked and Afraid and Shark Tank. Although I was incredibly disappointed in myself, I felt so much better.

Around 4PM, my doctor told me that we would start pushing. They were concerned that the epidural had slowed my labor and that they would have to break my water manually. Upon checking my cervix, it broke all over my doctor’s hand. Looks like my son had heard him.

For the next 3 hours, I pushed with all the strength a woman can muster. The epidural had considerably weakened my sensation. Pushing was a confusing mechanism with little precision. Was it less painful with the epidural? Yes. Was it painless? Absolutely not. All the mothers were right — giving birth does feel like pooping.

With my mother by my side and Dan Kim on the other, I pushed in every position available to me. With the mirror in front of me, I could see my son’s hair. It didn’t seem possible that anything human could fit through something so small. As he (slowly) made his way down the birthing canal, I started to develop a fever and his heart rate started to rise.

There were whispers about IV antibiotics. Concerned facial expressions. And the sudden appearance of the NICU team. There were no less than 15 people in my birthing suite. Despite this, I only had eyes on the prize: bringing my healthy child into this world.


At 7:49PM, on a warm Sunday evening in April, my son was born. The moment they placed him on my chest, I felt as if I had died and found out that heaven was indeed real. He was pink and fleshy, had Asian eyes, was covered in meconium, and rocked a black patch of hair on the back of his head. He was beautiful and I was in love.

As I was meeting this little lump of love, I hemorrhaged in my uterus. I had torn in 3 places. My fever rose to 102.0 degrees F. I developed tremors and was frighteningly cold. I was unable to urinate on my own and had a catheter placed. IV Antibiotics were pumped in me like diesel fuel. I was in the worst shape I had ever been.

But none of that mattered — my son was here.


TLDR; It’s nice to have a birthing plan. But the best plan of all is to be ready to say fuck the plan. Bringing life into this world was the hardest and most rewarding thing I’ve ever done with my time on Earth. Although I wasn’t able to experience an all natural birth, my son was born healthy and happy. Things didn’t turn out the way I wanted, they turned out better.

Why I Didn’t Share My Pregnancy on Social Media

On a balmy summer night last August, Dan Kim and I found out that we were going to be parents. Those two little pink lines didn’t take more than a second to appear. It was real and this was happening.

I simultaneously and instantaneously felt a sense of excitement and terror. This would continue for the rest of pregnancy (and beyond!). It is true that my being 24-years-old made the odds of miscarriage or genetic abnormality very low. But pregnancy doesn’t exactly encourage rational train of thought. I was endlessly cognizant of my own fragility, both physically and emotionally, for those 40 weeks and 2 days.

Microwaves. Caffeine. X-ray machines. Traveling by airplane. Pants that were too tight. Stress. Sleeping on my back. Secondhand smoke. Sashimi. Toxic people. These were all my worst enemies but none more so than social media.

If you didn’t post it, did it really happen?” seems to be the theme of my generation. Bought a car? Post it. Traveling to a new place? Post it. Getting engaged? Married? Find out the gender of your baby? At the gym? POST IT! Unlike most, my first instinct upon finding out I was pregnant, was to keep this information private. The custom of telling people at 12 weeks came and went with little to no announcement. I would be towards the end of my second trimester before even some of my closest friends would be told.

I didn’t want to be a piece of gossip swirling around my high school alumni. I didn’t want those who I barely fraternized with to know the intimate details of my life. I was a fragile pregnant woman. I wanted zero negativity, nosiness, and unsolicited advice regarding myself and my baby. So I opted out of the clever graphic t-shirts that say “bun in the oven”. The gender reveal posts. The monthly photo updates of my growing bare belly. The birth announcement with my baby’s full name, weight, and height.

Conversations often went like this:


Friend: “Is your pregnancy a secret?”

Me: No.

Friend: “Then why aren’t you posting it?”

Me: Because I only want close friends and family to know.

Friend: “So it is a secret then.”

Me: *sigh*……………………..


These conversations only validated my desire to keep this special time in my life close to my heart. I’m a strong opponent of oversharing. Social media isn’t entitled to my life. My details. My intimate moments. Out of the 1,000+ measly followers on my Instagram, only a handful of them would truly care about my pregnancy. For the rest of them, I would simply be a post that they scrolled past at 11 p.m. while in bed dreading work the next day. The most beautiful time in my life deserved more than that.

This isn’t to say that I don’t enjoy people’s pregnancy announcements, maternity photo shoots (I am a photographer after all), and pictures of their little peanuts fresh out the womb. I find a lot of joy viewing these beautiful moments of people’s lives. I get it. But for me, the right answer was privacy. This privacy allowed me to have a stress-free, “good vibes only”, and intimate experience. One that strengthened me to bring my beautiful son into this world with psychological and spiritual ease.

TLDR; Sharing my pregnancy on social media wasn’t for me personally. Keeping it intimate allowed me to remain peaceful, at ease, and enjoy it more with those who truly cared.