One of the biggest myths I hear in birth preparation is that if things don’t go “to plan,” you’ve somehow failed. That if your birth involves interventions, changes of course, or unexpected decisions, it’s less valid. Less beautiful. Less yours. I couldn’t disagree more. Birth isn’t a test you pass or fail, it’s a transformation. And when you prepare in the right way, with knowledge, flexibility, emotional support, and a deep sense of self-trust, you’re not just ready for the ideal scenario. You’re ready for your scenario. Whatever shape it takes. The story below is a gorgeous example of that. It’s about a high-risk pregnancy, a birth that took a few sharp turns, and a mum who met every moment with grace, humour, and power. It’s not a “perfect” birth. It’s a real one. And it’s absolutely worth celebrating.
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I always said I wanted a birth that felt like a coronation, dignified, powerful, and surrounded by people who knew how to hold space. What I got was more of a rollercoaster… but I wore the crown anyway.
My pregnancy was labelled high-risk from the start: a heart condition, a history of preterm labour, and a baby who liked to keep us guessing with her acrobatics. Every appointment felt like a plot twist. One week she was breech, the next she was transverse, and by 36 weeks she was head-down but throwing elbows like a tiny MMA fighter.
I had a birth plan, of course. It was laminated, colour-coded, and optimistic. But I also had a birth mindset: flexible, informed, and fiercely self-compassionate. That turned out to be the real MVP.
At 38 weeks, my consultant recommended an induction. I cried in the car park not because I disagreed, but because I needed to grieve the version of birth I’d imagined. Then I rallied. I packed snacks, affirmation cards, and a playlist that ranged from Beyoncé to whale sounds (don’t ask).
Labour started slowly. The induction was gentle, and my body responded like it had been waiting for permission. My doula kept reminding me: “You’re not broken. You’re brilliant.” And honestly, I believed her.
Things got intense around hour 12. Frankie’s heart rate dipped, and the room filled with quiet urgency. I remember locking eyes with the midwife and saying, “I trust you. Let’s do what we need to do.” That moment felt like the crown—the moment I stepped fully into my power, not because I was in control, but because I was in collaboration.
We moved to theatre for a forceps-assisted birth. It was fast, clinical, and oddly serene. I cracked a joke about my birth playlist being wasted on the surgical team, and someone snorted behind their mask. Frankie arrived with a squawk and a full head of hair, like she’d been born ready for her close-up.
Recovery was slow but sacred. I didn’t bounce back, I rebuilt. My body was tender, my heart was full, and my fridge was stocked by friends who knew that lasagna is love.
Frankie’s birth wasn’t what I planned. It was better. It was mine. And every time I tell the story, I feel the crown settle a little more firmly on my head.