Everyone joked that my pregnancy bed rest sounded like a dream. In reality, it was the hardest 3 months of my life.

In my 30s, my self-worth was still so connected to how much I could accomplish in a day that I named my business “do communications.” Then one night, as I sat reading my 2-year-old daughter a bedtime story while 24 weeks pregnant, I started spotting and cramping.

When I called my obstetrician, she advised me to meet her at the hospital as soon as possible.

Since my then-husband was out of town on a business trip, I called my neighbor to come over and stay with my sleeping toddler while I drove myself to the hospital.

The 15-minute drive felt like forever.

I had to repeatedly remind myself to breathe and stay within the speed limit as my mind raced from one terrible possibility to another.

The last thing I expected was to be admitted for the next several days while doctors monitored my condition.

It was 2005, and a baby born at 24 weeks of gestation was right at the threshold of viability.

Every day that she spent in utero improved her chances for survival and reduced her risk of serious long-term complications.

According to my doctor, strict bed rest for the remainder of my pregnancy was the best way to help prevent my baby from coming way too early.

How could a woman with a toddler, a full-time job, a side business, and a husband who traveled frequently for work spend three months in bed?

The only thing more surprising than being told to spend the rest of my pregnancy in bed was how everyone around me responded.

My friends, family, coworkers, and even complete strangers thought I was the luckiest woman in the world. “How do I get a prescription for bed rest?” I heard over and over again.

Hardly anyone seemed to understand that I was trying to keep my baby alive or how much help I needed with everyday chores like grocery shopping, house cleaning, taking my toddler back and forth to day care, and so much more.

So they mostly cracked jokes instead of pitching in and doing laundry, dropping off a casserole, or offering to babysit for a few hours.

But far from a vacation, staying in bed for three months was one of the hardest things I’d ever done.

I worried constantly about the health and survival of my unborn baby, whether I’d lose my job — the source of our family’s medical insurance — and the impact on my toddler, who couldn’t possibly understand why I had to spend every holiday from Halloween through New Year’s in the hospital. “Mommy, when are you coming home to make my oatmeal?” she asked almost every time her dad brought her to the hospital for a visit.

I felt like a complete failure and struggled to surrender the control, productivity, and identity I’d built around being a devoted mom, supportive wife, and hardworking career woman.

It wasn’t easy, but as my mind began to grasp the monumental challenge in front of me, I knew I had to do whatever I could to give my daughter the best chance at survival.

They seemed to understand better than anyone how hard it was to relinquish control and let others help.

They also reminded me that many women couldn’t simply put their feet up and rest for 12 weeks, no matter what the doctor said — single moms, women who had to work on their feet, and those without health insurance or any support.

And that’s when I started to realize how lucky I was.

Not because bed rest was really a vacation, but because I had the resources to do it when so many other women didn’t.

Twelve weeks later, my daughter was born perfectly healthy.

Now she’s a thriving college student who takes care of herself, and I’m reminded that one of the hardest things I’ve ever done looked to others like nothing at all.