As a child, I would cradle my dolls and imagine the day I’d become a mother. It was my biggest dream. So when we struggled with miscarriage, it felt like the world was against us, like that dream was slipping further and further away.
When we finally found out we were expecting, the joy was cautious. The anticipation leading up to that 12-week scan was overwhelming, riddled with anxiety and uncertainty. I couldn’t allow myself to connect with the baby yet. I felt guilty, but I had to protect my heart. Then, there it was, a tiny, perfect heartbeat. I cried tears of joy and relief as I watched our baby bounce around on the screen. It was magic.
A part of me wanted to shout it from the rooftops. But another part whispered, “Don’t jinx it”. We told our immediate family, but kept the news quiet from everyone else. I held the secret close, like something too precious to expose to the world.
Pregnancy was tough, it felt like a test. Morning sickness that lasted all day, pelvic girdle pain that left me immobilised at times, and then gestational diabetes. One by one, my birth preferences started falling away. My dream of a home birth or even a midwife-led unit was replaced with hospital forms and monitoring schedules. As a first time mum, I decided to trust the experts.
At 38 weeks, I was told I had to be induced due to the diabetes and baby measuring big. I didn’t want an induction, but I wanted my baby safe more than anything. I agreed, but I also advocated for myself. I asked to try other methods first, and they reluctantly agreed to a sweep.
During the sweep, I was told I was already 2cm dilated. That night, labour began.
Contractions started slowly, gently, like distant waves. I drifted in and out of sleep, unsure if it was real labour or just discomfort from the sweep. By morning, it was undeniable.
I let my husband sleep, then gave him the news with a smile when he woke. We went for a peaceful dog walk, stopping every so often so I could lean into him during contractions. Then we carried on like nothing had happened.
The house smelled of lavender, the lights were low, and I was in and out of warm baths. I rolled around on my birth ball, swaying and breathing. We ate well, walked the curb, crab-walked up the stairs. By night, I was tired. I lay in bed, waking occasionally with each surge, breathing through them.
In the early hours, things ramped up. I walked the room, rocking my hips, riding each wave. By morning, I could barely speak through the contractions. I signalled to my husband to start timing them.
It was time to go in.
At the hospital, they wanted to confirm I was in established labour before admitting me to the labour ward. A familiar midwife peeked around the curtain “Did I do your sweep the other day?” she asked with a warm smile. I immediately felt at ease.
She examined me: “Four centimetres. Well done.” Relief washed over me.
At the labour ward, we were greeted by a trainee midwife who was instantly supportive. She respected my birth preferences, was curious about hypnobirthing, and gave us the space we needed. I was active, moving, breathing, swaying, and though it made it tricky to monitor baby, the team respected my rhythm.
I started feeling like I needed to poo. Twice I sat on the toilet, but nothing came. I told my husband to get the midwife.
This time, the lead midwife came in. She asked me to lie down and checked baby’s heart rate. It wasn’t strong.
Suddenly, the calm shifted. The room filled with people. I was told I needed to get the baby out, or they would have to. I was 8cm dilated.
They suggested breaking my waters. I agreed.
A flood of amniotic fluid, and I was at 10cm, ready to push.
I roared. I pushed with everything I had. They gently suggested an episiotomy. It wasn’t part of my original plan, but this was different. I said yes.
A few more pushes, and baby’s head was nearly out. I was exhausted. “You need to push,” they said. “I can’t,” I whispered. But I wasn’t giving up, I just didn’t have a contraction to work with.
I remember thinking, Just wait. My body will come back.
And it did.
One more powerful surge, and I pushed with all my might.
Her head. Then her body.
She was here.
But she wasn’t well.
They whisked her away to the NICU. She would spend her first week there. But thanks to everything I’d learned from hypnobirthing, I stayed calm. I was able to make informed, confident decisions, even in the chaos.
We had talked about this. Prepared for a “just in case” scenario.
My husband went with her, advocating for her just as beautifully as he had for me. I knew she was in the best hands.
The little girl who once dreamed of being a mother had no idea how strong she’d need to be.
But she made it.
I made it.
And now, I’m someone’s mother.
When I finally got to hold my precious little girl, it all felt right. It all made sense. Every struggle, every tear, every moment of doubt… it had led to her.
One day, as I sat in my hospital bed getting ready to go up and see my daughter, my phone rang.
“Hello, I’m just calling to say we were expecting you in today for your induction.”
I smiled.
“I’ve already had her.”
