After suffering two miscarriages in the last 18 months, pregnancy didn’t feel like the joyful, glowing experience people often describe. It felt heavy. I couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel, and mentally, I braced myself for another loss. The constant anxiety of scans, the fear of buying anything too soon, and the overwhelming weight of protecting my heart was all-consuming.
But at my 20-week scan, something shifted. Everything looked 'normal'. For the first time, I allowed myself to exhale. To hope. I decided at this point to lean into the pregnancy, despite the fear. Because my baby deserved to be honoured, no matter the outcome.
On Sunday evening, I decided to harvest some colostrum, and teased Sam, my husband that it might just send me into labour. He was all for it, especially if it meant I’d go into labour that weekend—perfect timing for him to catch the Masters Golf and the Formula 1 on TV.
At 11:30pm that night, I woke up with what I thought was just a tummy ache and went to the loo. But something made me check my pyjama shorts… and they were soaked. I went back to bed, thinking it might’ve just been something else. Then came a strong tightening. I woke Sam—who told me to get some sleep as it was likely I'd be labouring for a long time and I needed rest. I went back up to bed, but couldn't get comfortable. No chance. I knew. This was it. I was in labour.
The surges weren't that intense but they were sporadic, my instinct was telling me to call MAU so I did. They asked me to go in so they could assess my circumstances and make a plan for the next 24hrs. We made our way to the hospital, with surges still coming irregularly but building in intensity. We arrived at MAU at 1:30am, and things ramped up quickly. I was calm, focused—using my birth comb and breath to ride each wave.
The midwife asked to examine me to establish how dilated I was. I hesitated. Vaginal exams had always been difficult for me from the previous baby losses. Sam asked about the necessity of this vaginal examination and our options and between him and the midwife agreed to give me gas and air to get through it. I did it. I fricking did it! And I was already 6cm. I couldn’t believe it.
From there, everything moved beautifully. I got my dream water birth. I had all good intentions to listen to the MP3's I'd be practicing for 4 weeks... BUT... No time for music or affirmations, no slow dancing with Sam or massage—just me, a touch of sleep spray on a sanitary towel (haha), and raw determination. I was in the pool for 90 minutes, repeating quietly: "one more breath, one more surge" "my surges cannot be stronger than me, they are me"..
And at 4:19am, just four pushes later—12 days early—our baby was born. I brought them up out of the water myself and landed them onto my chest. They were so calm, so peaceful. And then came the moment I will never forget—we hadn’t found out the gender during pregnancy, so I was the one who got to discover this and share the news with Sam:
“It’s a boy!”
Telling Sam that we had a son—seeing his face, that instant connection, the joy—it’s a memory I will cherish for the rest of my life.
Of course, like many birth stories, there was a small complication. My placenta wouldn’t come away. We waited the full hour physiologically, then tried the injection—still no progress. Eventually, I needed surgery for manual removal, and a few stitches for a second-degree tear.
But despite it all, I felt incredible. I kept breathing through every part of it, watching Sam cradle our rainbow baby—giggling at the sight of Sam in scrubs. I felt strong. Empowered. Unbreakable. Even three days postpartum, that feeling hasn’t faded.
My midwife told me, “If we could write the perfect birth, yours would be it.”
And Sam—oh, Sam. He was everything. My calm, my safe space, my biggest cheerleader. I couldn’t have done it without him. He was the best birthing partner I could’ve ever wished for.
I would do it all again. (maybe not tomorrow haha) but I’d relive those five hours over and over if I could.
