And then, I become a mother in Paris.

Early March 2026.
My eldest daughter was born in Paris, just as the long winter was coming to an end.

She is a genuine Parisian, born in the 15th arrondissement and registered in the 8th (something I'm almost envious of, even though she's my own child)...

I'm going to be an astronaut, so I don't need children.

Ever since I was old enough to understand, I kept telling everyone around me, I don't need children, and for some reason, I remember that vividly. As for the logic of Yuri Murata (age 5), who used to say such things:

• Before having children, you have to marry a man you like, and that's somehow embarrassing.

• I'm going to be an astronaut when I grow up, so I can't raise children.

• Above all, Mom said that giving birth to children is incredibly painful.

That's probably about it.

That didn't change until I met my partner, Pierre, and he told me in all seriousness that he wanted children.

In short, I had never once in my life seriously considered that I would ever give birth to a child myself (Sorry, Aiko).

So, when Pierre pressed me, asking, "Yuri, do you really want to have children someday?" I was honestly troubled. At the time, I had only just arrived in France, my work was relatively busy, and above all, there were too many things I wanted to do. I was barely managing to take care of myself, so how could I possibly raise a baby?

I would never be mentally prepared in my entire life.

The reason I, who thought such things, finally decided to get off my high horse and face it seriously was, first, because I learned that epidurals are the norm in France. That's huge. Second, because of Pierre's speech, typical of a Frenchman, which ends up persuading you before you know it, and his persistent nature as always. And above all, third, because with this person, raising a child seems like it would be fun, which I had vaguely felt in the back of my mind all along.

On the foggy seaside of Biarritz in the south of France, we made a promise to "start trying for a baby within a year," at the end of 2024.

We started trying for a baby in June 2025, at the time when both Pierre and I had quit our jobs and were unemployed. I found out I was pregnant the following month.

I was right in the middle of walking the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage route in Spain.

Every time I told the people I met on the Camino, "Actually, I think I'm pregnant now..." they would give me many blessings, saying, "Congratulations! How wonderful!"

Oh, so this is how much people celebrate the birth of a child.

While I thought that, at the time, I still felt like it was happening to someone else.

The doctors who helped me become a mother with all their might.

After finishing my 700-kilometer journey in Spain, I returned to Paris, crawling through trains and planes while battling a level of physical exhaustion I had never experienced in my life and the morning sickness of early pregnancy.

Even though the pregnancy test I bought at a pharmacy in the Spanish countryside was positive, I didn't know a single thing about what to do next in this world, so I decided to book an appointment at the obstetrics and gynecology department of the medical center closest to my house, about a 10-minute walk away.

Dr. Schneider

The doctor I was assigned to there was Dr. Schneider, a wonderful man with white hair and a beard. He was an elderly doctor nearing retirement who had a habit of looking up over the top of his glasses when he spoke.

I could imagine that when he was younger, he must have been quite the character, writing out prescriptions and medical records by hand, but he clearly hadn't kept up with the digitized modern age. Since he entered the examination details one character at a time using only the index fingers of his right and left hands, 80% of the consultation time was spent on the doctor's computer work.

Normally, one might feel like they were being kept waiting. But I really loved that slowly flowing time.

At my second check-up, he let me hear the baby's heartbeat. The machine looked so faded and worn in places that I wondered if it had been in use for over 30 years, but the heartbeat that flowed from that old device was much faster, strangely more powerful, and clearer than I had imagined.

The "pregnancy" that I had only understood in my head until then turned into a reality that permeated my entire body in just a few seconds.

However, my farewell to Dr. Schneider came suddenly.

Just one check-up before being handed over to the hospital, he ended up leaving the medical center because, as he put it, "The management of this medical center is terrible and so stressful that I can't take it anymore!"

While I thought it was a very doctor-like reason, the moment I shook the hand he offered after he told me to "do your best until the birth," I was unexpectedly overcome with emotion.

Even though it was just a monthly routine check-up, Dr. Schneider had been watching over me during the first few months as I was becoming a mother.

Since I had been thinking, "I have to report to the doctor first thing after the baby is born!" it happened so suddenly that I hadn't prepared to say a proper goodbye. After shaking his hand and leaving the examination room, I cried a little.

Dr. Gira

The doctor in charge of my ultrasound was Dr. Gira. He was the complete opposite of Dr. Schneider—young and cool.

While sliding the probe, he would find the necessary cross-section just by glancing at the screen for a second and capture images one after another. His efficiency was so impressive that I couldn't help but be charmed by it.

Moreover, he would always make sure to compliment us in between.

I don’t know if he truly meant it or if it was just his standard routine every time, but whenever we heard those words, we couldn’t help but look at each other and grin.

When he told us the gender during the third ultrasound,

he said, as usual, in a rather theatrical way.

Like every pregnant woman in the world, I had my fair share of vague anxieties, but as I talked with Dr. Gira, those worries were pushed aside just a little, and the feeling of “I want to meet this child in my belly soon” became much stronger.

Every time, the doctorhelped nurture the joy of the child being born, little by little.he did.

Dr. Gauzan

From the seventh month of pregnancy, the baton is passed to Necker Hospital (Hôpital Necker), where I would give birth. Just like with Dr. Schneider, I would have blood and urine tests done at a local lab and bring the results with me. Besides that, I also had checkups with an anesthesiologist and the hospital’s dedicated sonographer.

At the same time, thechildbirth preparation classeswith a local midwife (Dr. Gauzan) would begin (a total of 6 sessions).

It was a six-session program, once a week for an hour, with three pregnant women whose due dates were close. Depending on the session, partners would also participate, and we would learn everything from the flow from the start of labor to delivery, about epidurals, breathing techniques and positions to ease labor pain, to breastfeeding and newborn care. Dr. Gauzanspecialized in breastfeeding, so she was particularly passionate about that session, which turned into a two-hour course.

Dr. Gauzan was another young, energetic female midwife who would tell things exactly as they were.

“Is this okay...?”
“Is it a problem if I do that...?”

To us, who would ask questions while flustered like that,

she would cut right through the uncertainty. Both Pierre and I really liked that decisiveness.

That’s because ever since we found out I was pregnant, we had been researching everything we could get our hands on whenever we had a spare moment. Which crib is best? How many baby bottles do we need? What about pacifiers? Baby carriers? Swaddles? Breast pumps?

The more I look into it, the more the "things I need" keep piling up.Honestly, it's exhausting.

Every time I asked, "Is it better to have this too, right?", Dr. Gauzan's answer was almost always the same.

"You don't need it."

How many times that one sentence saved me.

Dr. Gauzan taught me things that are okay not to know.For pregnancy, childbirth, and child-rearing, what you need is not just blindly accumulating new knowledge.

Waiting for a pain I have never experienced.

I continued preparing for the birth steadily, but in the end, the fear of childbirth did not disappear until just before the birth.

As the due date approached, I was fed up with my heavy, full-term body and aching back, and it was a drag not being able to eat raw fish, but even when asked, "So, do you want to give birth right now?", I couldn't honestly say "Yes."

I don't know what kind of pain labor is. An unknown pain I have never experienced is coming soon, and it is definitely coming.Moreover, beyond getting through the birth, days surely await that are harder than I can imagine right now, and days that I cannot control myself.

Just waiting for that is quite a scary thing.

Of course, I was looking forward to meeting my child, but as I was in my final month, I felt very heavy-hearted for some reason.

Labor started around 10:30 at night.

When I had finished watching Netflix with Pierre and was preparing for bed, saying, "Okay, let's go to sleep soon," I felt a pain in my lower abdomen that I had never felt before.

Huh. It hurts a bit.

That pain, which was enough to make me unable to speak, disappeared after about a minute, and then came again.

"So this is what they call labor..."

I took the pose Dr. Gauzan taught me, and while taking slow, deep breaths, I tried to ease the pain.

Every time labor pains came, I pressed a timer to record the intervals. The pain gradually grew stronger, and the intervals became shorter. Then, around 4:30 in the morning, when they were about 10 minutes apart, I called a taxi and headed to the hospital.

After a 20-minute taxi ride, I arrived at Necker Hospital in the 15th arrondissement of Paris. There were no other pregnant women there, and I was able to be examined in the consultation room right away.My cervix was already dilated by 2 centimeters, so I was admitted immediately.

I felt a little good after being praised by the midwife.

When I moved to the delivery room, a monitor was attached to my belly to measure the intensity of the contractions and the baby's heart rate, and the anesthesiologist set up an epidural catheter.

Before inserting the catheter, they even gave me a local anesthetic in my back with an even thinner needle. My personal theory is that French people are sensitive to pain, but thanks to this "anesthetic for the anesthetic", I felt almost no pain when the catheter was inserted.

The anesthesia is set up so that you can press a button yourself to administer an additional dose of medication.

"Ah, finally, I will be free from the pain," I thought, but life is not that easy.

The catheter setup was finished around 6:30 in the morning. Hmm, I did feel like the pain had eased a little, but no matter how many times I pressed the button, it still hurt normally when the contractions came.

Is this what a painless delivery is like?
No, Dr. Gauzan said that once the anesthesia kicked in, the pain would disappear completely...

I endured it while thinking that, but it was clearly strange, so I had the anesthesiologist check it again. It turned out that the medication was leaking out, and almost none of the anesthesia was entering my body.

It seems that I had been relying solely on the placebo effect of "feeling like the pain had eased a little" while continuing to feel almost the full pain of the contractions.

At this point, my "French people have very low pain tolerance theory" was confirmed, but the nurses praised me again, saying, "That's amazing, you endured it so well!" Even though I thought it had been quite painful, I still felt energized by the praise.

They reinserted the catheter, and I pressed the button a few times over a period of time.

And then, oh my, this was amazing.

The pain from before disappeared as if it were a lie.Seriously, zero.

Pierre seemed shocked by the change in me before and after, but once I entered super-chill mode, we just waited for the cervix to dilate. The midwives checked me internally many times, but it wasn't progressing much. So, halfway through, it was decided to artificially rupture the amniotic membrane.

Hearing that sounds quite horrifying, but since the anesthesia was already working well, I responded (super-chill) by saying, "Go ahead. Please do whatever you need to do."

Around 1:00 PM. Pierre and I, who hadn't slept a wink since 10:00 PM the previous night, started to doze off thinking, "Finally, I can sleep a little..." but we were immediately shaken awake.

It seems my cervix had suddenly dilated from 8 cm to 10 cm.

The baby's head was being compressed in the birth canal. Furthermore, the umbilical cord was wrapped around its neck. If we didn't get the baby out quickly, there was a possibility of a dangerous situation.

When the doctors told me that, the atmosphere changed instantly.

I pushed with all my might, just as I was told.
I strained in time with the voices of the midwives and Pierre.

And then, at 2:13 PM.
A healthy baby girl weighing 2955g was born.

You don't have to do it all alone.

I have never experienced childbirth in Japan, so I cannot compare, but having experienced pregnancy and childbirth in France, there is one thing I felt strongly. That is, this country is genuinely trying to support the birth and raising of children as a whole society that is what it is.

Except for some tests in early pregnancy, compression stockings, and (completely ineffective) morning sickness medication, most medical expenses are covered by social insurance.

As a Japanese person, I was never once sidelined because I was a foreigner. I was examined just like a French person, supported by the same system, and was able to welcome the day of birth with the same peace of mind.

In Japan, where it tends to be expensive, epidurals are very common in France and on top of that, the Necker Hospital where I was cared for had private rooms for everyone. Thanks to that, I was able to spend my four-day hospital stay at my own pace, breastfeeding and sleeping without worrying about other mothers. And yet, there were no additional costs at all.

Of course, the French medical system likely has its own challenges. Even so, what I felt was good throughout my pregnancy was not just the system itself.

In France, giving birth to a child is considered not just a matter for the mother or family, but something that should be supported by society as a whole. That mindset came through in every aspect of the medical care and the system.

Rather than thinking, 'I have to do my best and get through this alone,' I think being able to naturally feel, 'It's okay to rely on others with peace of mind,' helped me overcome the anxiety and fear of something I had never experienced before—pregnancy and childbirth. I think that is how I overcame the anxiety and fear of something I had never experienced before.

So that I can give plenty of love.

From the day I found out I was pregnant, until I met Aiko.

Dr. Schneider, who examined me with such care.
Dr. Gira, who praised the baby so much every time we had an ultrasound.
Dr. Gauzan, who removed my anxieties one by one.
And the doctors, midwives, and nurses who supported me through every step of the birth at Necker Hospital.

Coming from a foreign country, this country's medical system protected me just as it does those born and raised in France.

Of course, it is not just that.

My family and friends who were as happy about my pregnancy as if it were their own.
The people on the pilgrimage route in Spain who sincerely blessed us just after we met.
And Pierre, who watched over me more closely than anyone else for nine months, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Without them, I could never have safely given birth to a healthy baby.

The night Aiko was born.
Exhausted from the delivery, I gently cradled Aiko in my arms when she would cry the moment I placed her in her bed. Then, as if by magic, she stopped crying instantly and fell right asleep.

In that moment, I realized I had become a mother, and suddenly, so many things came flooding back in vivid color.

From the small Spanish town of Astorga where I discovered I was pregnant, to the doctor's office in Paris, the tiny body I first saw on the ultrasound screen, the childbirth preparation classes I attended every week while protecting my heavy belly, and finally, the hospital delivery room nicknamed "Cocoricó."

Ah, truly, it was a wonderful journey.

It was a nine-month period blessed with so much love, supported, encouraged, and celebrated by many people.

In the name "Aiko," I poured my wish that she would not only be given much love, but also become a person who can give much love to others, and perhaps that wish had already begun to come true from the very day I was blessed with Aiko.

Thinking of that, I felt a little proud that I had chosen the name "Aiko."

In any case, the journey of pregnancy and childbirth has, for now, come to an end.
The journey of being a mother has only just reached the starting line.