Taking Back My Power: My Birth Story Retold

For those of you who have been following my journey, you’ve probably heard my birth story. It was a pivotal moment in shaping my decision to become a doula, and my entire future at all. I’ve written plenty about it as a scary, traumatizing, and disempowering experience. That was my feeling at the time, and it is a completely valid way to feel. Yet, as time goes on, I feel the narrative in my mind and in my words shifting. Yes, my birth experience was scary and traumatic. It was also exactly what I needed it to be.  

I hope this isn’t taken as a form of toxic positivity, because that is not how it feels to me at all, but the experience is exactly what I needed. I needed growth. I needed to recognize and step into my power. I needed to find my path on this Earth. I needed to reconnect with goddess, nature, and my ancestors. I needed to heal my mother wound, sister wound, and witch wound. I needed to acknowledge the strength of the divine feminine. I needed to heal alongside my sisters. I needed to learn to trust the universe. There was so much that I needed to learn at that point in my life and my son’s birth was a part of that powerful lesson. I would not be the person I am today without that experience.

So here’s the new version of my birth story. The one where I regain my power and my position as the heroine of my own story.  

I had planned for a natural home birth with a wonderful midwife whom I trusted deeply. It was going to be relaxing, candle-lit, in a warm tub in the arms of my partner. Then at 38 weeks I developed hypertension and was transferred to the hospital for my induction. If I knew then what I know now, there is much that I would have done differently, like working to balance my diet. At the time I was a vegan and thought I was very healthy, but in reality I was not getting the nutrients that my body desperately needed, especially protein. I also would have improved my movement habits and stress reduction. I strongly believe now that I could have avoided hypertension and the hospital transfer. I also believe that I may not have needed to transfer at all, but unfortunately, we don’t know what we don’t know.

I went into my hospital transfer full of fear and generations of stored trauma. I had not prepared at all for this possibility and certainly was not in the state of mind to manage the hierarchy and policies of the medical system. Not to mention, I was not educated enough to navigate it even if I had been in the right state of mind. Luckily, I was in one of the more mother-baby friendly hospitals and was able to be seen by the midwives and labor in the way. Most women do not have as supportive hospital staff as I did. Still, there was the pressure of being around complete strangers, in a bright, sterile environment, where surgeons were just a button-push away.

The induction took forever. I was on misoprotyl for two full days with no mention of the risks or any alternative options. I did not know to ask those things back then. When that did not help me dilate, I was given Pitocin. It was nearly impossible to relax and let the nature process of labor kick in. People were frequently coming in and out, my cervix was constantly being checked, and the hospital room was overall uncomfortable, too bright, and just did not provide the privacy I needed to let go. Labor continued on very slowly, only now I was in sudden and unbearable pain. My back hurt so bad that I shook uncontrollably. That’s when we found out my son was OP (sunny side up). By the third day, the midwives wanted to break my water to speed things up. Another intervention I agreed to because I did not know my options or what questions to ask.

This next part has always been the hardest part for me to talk about because ultimately my birth team was fairly supportive and worked with my birth plan, but this is the perfect example of how one “small” mistake can lead to lasting trauma.

As the midwives were doing a cervical exam to prepare to break my water, they started whispering and within moments a team of 10+ doctors came rushing in to check me out. A surgeon came over to me, and I will never forget the exact words she said to me: “The umbilical cord has prolapsed. Your son’s hear rate has dropped. We need to get you into the operating room right now. Don’t worry, we will have the baby out in two minutes. Do you acknowledge that a c-section comes with the risk of damage to neighboring organs and hemorrhage?” This moment, though only seconds in duration still creeps in to haunt me from time to time. Luckily, it was a false alarm and within seconds the midwife called out that the cord had not prolapsed. It was a mistake, but the fear and panic remained in my body for the remainder of the birth and my decision making. I was told that if I continued on without an epidural and there was an emergency cesarean, I would have to be put under general anesthesia and would not be able to see my son when he was born. I did not consider that there was no valid reason why I would need an emergency cesarean. The fear was enough to convince me to get the epidural. Then, my water bag was broken and active labor soon kicked in.

The next day was April 4th- Easter Sunday. My grandma had called me a few days before I went to the hospital to tell me she had a dream that my son would be born on Easter. When I was induced, I thought “wow grandma was really close”.  I think grandmas have a type of magic, but that’s a story for another blog post. Now it was easter and it was time to push.

Thanks to the epidural, I couldn’t move or feel the lower half of my body. I was completely disconnected from myself physically, as well as from my intuition. I felt hopeless and powerless. I felt like my birth experience had been robbed from me. I pushed for hours until I was exhausted and needed to nap. Then, I pushed for hours more. Five to be exact. At this point, the midwife advised a cesarean. I got a second opinion, a third opinion, and a fourth. Everyone advised a cesarean so I agreed. Within ten minutes it was all finally over as I heard my son’s first cry.

I was able to see him and kiss him for a few moments before I started to get very cold and weak, and my vision went dark. Quickly, he and my partner were both rushed off to the recovery room. I felt icy and as if I was losing consciousness. I also felt panic, unsure if what I was experiencing was normal. The staff were no longer answering my questions and my loved ones were gone. I knew something was wrong. I only found out later that I had suffered a massive hemorrhage and lost half of the blood in my body. After another hour of work and two blood transfusions, I was ready to be reunited with my baby. 

My birth experience was nothing like what I had hoped for, but it was empowering in a new way. It empowered me to learn and to grow. It empowered me to make a difference in the birth system. To advocate, to teach, and to nurture other women as they navigate this crazy experience. It was exactly what I needed to find my calling and step into my magic. It changed my life forever as everything about motherhood and my son did.

For anyone else who has had a traumatic birth experience, it is important to remember that you should take the time to feel all of the feelings that come along with it. They are all valid. Healing will eventually come as you work on yourself, although it may not be linear, and it may not mean that the pain 100% goes away. Healing for me has taken a long time, but now that I have this knowledge and power, I can’t help but literally dream of my next birth(s). I can’t help but fall in love with the process of birth when it is  left undisturbed. I have the absolute best job in the world, and I am so grateful that my personal experience has led me here.