I cannot recall the exact moment my TikTok feed presented me with a video of a woman cradling her stillborn baby, but I do remember the wave of emotion that hit me. Initially, it resembled the joyous clips of mothers holding their newborns, all wrapped up and snug in blankets, with mothers weeping—just like many in those postnatal clips. However, the true nature of the video became clear when I glanced at the caption: her baby was born at just 23 weeks. I was at 22 weeks pregnant. A mere coincidence.

My social media algorithms seemed to know about my pregnancy even before my family, friends, or doctor did. Within a day, my feed transformed. On both Instagram and TikTok, videos emerged featuring women documenting their journeys as if they were conducting pregnancy tests. I began to “like,” “save,” and “share” these posts, feeding the algorithm and indicating my interest, and it responded with more content. But it didn’t take long for the initial joy to be overtaken by dread.

The algorithm quickly adapted to my deepest fears related to pregnancy, introducing clips about miscarriage stories. In them, women shared their heartbreaking experiences after being told their babies had no heartbeat. Soon, posts detailing complications and horror stories started flooding my feed.

One night, after watching a woman document her painful birthing experience with a stillbirth, I uninstalled the app amidst tears. But I reinstalled it shortly after; work commitments and social habits dictated I should. I attempted to block unwanted content, but my efforts were mostly futile.

On TikTok alone, over 300,000 videos are tagged with “miscarriage,” and another 260,000 are linked under related terms. A specific video titled “Live footage of me finding out I had a miscarriage” has garnered almost 500,000 views, while fewer than 5 million have been dedicated to women giving birth to stillborns.

Had I encountered such content before pregnancy, I might have viewed the widespread sharing of these experiences as essential. I don’t believe individuals sharing these deeply personal moments are in the wrong; for some, these narratives could offer solace. Yet, amid the endless stream of anxiety-inducing content, I couldn’t shake the discomfort of the algorithm prioritizing such overwhelming themes.

When discussing this experience with others who were also pregnant at the same time, I found shared nods of understanding and similar narratives. They too recounted their personalized concoctions of fears, as their algorithms zeroed in on their unique anxieties. Our experiences felt radical as we were bombarded with such harrowing content, expanding the range of what is deemed normal concern. This is what pregnancy and motherhood are like in 2025.

“Some posts are supportive, but others are extreme and troubling. I don’t want to relive that,” remarks 8-month-pregnant Cerel Mukoko. Mukoko primarily engages with this content on Facebook and Instagram but deleted TikTok after becoming overwhelmed. “My eldest son is 4 years old, and during my pregnancy, I stumbled upon upsetting posts. They hit closer to home, and it seems to be spiraling out of control.” She adds that the disturbing graphics in this content are growing increasingly hard to cope with.

As a 35-year-old woman of color, Mukoko noticed specific portrayals of pregnant Black women in this content. A 2024 analysis of NHS data indicated that Black women faced up to six times the rate of severe complications compared to their white counterparts during childbirth. “This wasn’t my direct experience, but it certainly raises questions about my treatment and makes me feel more vigilant during appointments,” she states.

“They truly instill fear in us,” she observes. “You start to wonder: ‘Could this happen to me? Am I part of that unfortunate statistic?’ Given the complications I’ve experienced during this pregnancy, those intrusive thoughts can be quite consuming.”

For Dr. Alice Ashcroft, a 29-year-old researcher and consultant analyzing the impacts of identity, gender, language, and technology, this phenomenon began when she was expecting. “Seeing my pregnancy announcement was difficult.”

This onslaught didn’t cease once she was pregnant. “By the end of my pregnancy, around 36 weeks, I was facing stressful scans. I began noticing links shared by my midwife. I was fully aware that the cookies I’d created (my digital footprint) influenced this feed, which swayed towards apocalyptic themes and severe issues. Now with a 6-month-old, her experience continues to haunt her.

The ability of these algorithms to hone in on our most intimate fears is both unsettling and cruel. “For years, I’ve been convinced that social media reads my mind,” says 36-year-old Jade Asha, who welcomed her second child in January. “For me, it was primarily about body image. I’d see posts of women who were still gym-ready during their 9th month, which made me feel inadequate.”

Navigating motherhood has brought its own set of anxieties for Asha. “My feed is filled with posts stating that breastfeeding is the only valid option, and the comment sections are overloaded with opinions presented as facts.”

Dr. Christina Inge, a Harvard researcher specializing in tech ethics, isn’t surprised by these experiences. “Social media platforms are designed for engagement, and fear is a powerful motivator,” she observes. “Once the algorithm identifies someone who is pregnant or might be, it begins testing content similar to how it handles any user data.”

“This content is not a glitch; it’s about engagement, and engagement equals revenue,” Inge continues. “Fear-based content keeps users hooked, creating a sense of urgency to continue watching, even when it’s distressing. Despite the growing psychological toll, these platforms profit.”

The negative impact of social media on pregnant women has been a subject of extensive research. A systematic review examining social media use during pregnancy highlights both benefits and challenges. While it offers peer guidance and support, it also concludes that “issues such as misinformation, anxiety, and excessive use persist.” Dr. Nida Aftab, an obstetrician and the review’s author, emphasizes the critical role healthcare professionals should play in guiding women towards healthier digital habits.

Pregnant women may not only be uniquely vulnerable social media consumers, but studies show they often spend significantly more time online. A research article published in midwife last year indicated a marked increase in social media use during pregnancy, particularly peaking around week 20. Moreover, 10.5% of participants reported experiencing symptoms of social media addiction, as defined by the Bergen Social Media Addiction Scale.

In the broader context, Inge proposes several improvements. A redesigned approach could push platforms to feature positive, evidence-based content in sensitive areas like pregnancy and health. Increased transparency regarding what users are viewing (with options to adjust their feeds) could help minimize harm while empowering policymakers to establish stronger safeguards around sensitive subjects.

“It’s imperative users understand that feeds are algorithmic constructs rather than accurate portrayals of reality,” Inge asserts. “Pregnancy and early parent-child interactions should enjoy protective digital spaces, but they are frequently monetized and treated as discrete data points.”

For Ashcroft, resolving this dilemma is complex. “A primary challenge is that technological advancements are outpacing legislative measures,” she notes. “We wander into murky waters regarding responsibility. Ultimately, it may fall to governments to accurately regulate social media information, but that could come off as heavy-handed. While some platforms incorporate fact-checking through AI, these measures aren’t foolproof and may carry inherent biases.” She suggests using the “I’m not interested in this” feature may be beneficial, even if imperfect. “My foremost advice is to reduce social media consumption,” she concludes.

My baby arrived at the start of the year, and I finally had a moment to breathe as she emerged healthy. However, that relief was brief. In the months following my transition into motherhood, my feed shifted yet again, introducing new fears. Each time I logged onto Instagram, the suggested reels displayed titles like: Another baby falls victim to danger, accompanied by the text “This is not safe.” Soon after, there was a clip featuring a toddler with a LEGO in their mouth and a caption reading, “This could happen to your child if you don’t know how to respond.”

Will this content ultimately make me a superior, well-informed parent? Some might argue yes. But at what cost? Recent online safety legislation emphasizes the necessity for social responsibility to protect vulnerable populations in their online journeys. Yet, as long as the ceaseless threat of misfortune, despair, and misinformation assails the screens of new and expecting mothers, social media firms will profit from perpetuating fear while we continue to falter.