Well if you insist...

I sat there, waiting. Deep down, I knew it wasn’t a false positive, but I couldn’t help holding onto a sliver of hope.

The results came back. Yep, I’m pregnant.

Here we go again.

My doctor sat down across from me and asked, “What are you going to do?”

I stared at her, confused. I mean, I already have five kids—what’s one more?

But that wasn’t what she meant. She wanted to make sure I wouldn’t stop smoking weed.

Let me be clear—I’m not an advocate for smoking weed during pregnancy. Far from it. But for me, it was a necessity.

My doctor has been with me for 20 years. She knows me. She understands me. I’ve always been honest with her.

She knew me before the bipolar diagnosis. Before the PTSD.

She understood that my mind wasn’t equipped to handle going without it. That my body needed nourishment, and my mental health would spiral if I stopped. And if I spiraled, my kids would suffer.

Cannabis gave me patience, focus, and understanding—things I desperately needed to be the best version of myself for my family.