Thank you to T for sharing this powerful story with such honesty and heart. Birth is never one-size-fits-all, and it’s in the sharing, the real, messy, beautiful bits that we find strength, solidarity, and new possibilities.
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I gave birth to my daughter in our front room, surrounded by fairy lights, the smell of peppermint oil, and the comforting clatter of my husband boiling yet another kettle for the birth pool. It was everything I had hoped for and yet, so much more raw and unpredictable than I’d imagined.
Labour started like a whisper. I wasn’t even sure if it was real. That’s the strange thing about a first-time birth: you’re waiting for some big neon sign to announce “This Is It!” But instead, I had a few quiet cramps at 11pm that grew into waves by 2am. I hesitated to call the midwives. Part of me worried I’d be wasting their time, another part didn’t want to admit I was actually doing this.
In hindsight, that’s something I’d change. I spent those early hours trying to intellectualise the experience instead of trusting my body. I kept second-guessing myself: “Is this labour? Am I dilated enough? Will they send me back?” It wasn’t until I roar red through a contraction at 3:30am that I knew it was time and when the midwives arrived, I cried with relief.
They were brilliant. Quiet, confident, gentle. One of them touched my arm and said, “You’re doing beautifully.” And suddenly, I believed it. I was doing it, not perfectly, not painlessly, but completely.
The birth pool became my sanctuary. I sank into the warmth like it might hold all my fears. My husband whispered affirmations I'd scribbled weeks earlier, most of them forgotten now, but the cadence of his voice soothed me. He stayed close, pressing cold flannels to my neck, squeezing my hand, offering sips of coconut water I didn’t know I needed.
There was a moment in transition, that blurry, overwhelming place where everything feels impossible. When I said, “I don’t know if I can do this.” One of the midwives knelt beside me and said, “You already are.”
And then came the roaring. No hypnobirthing voice in my head could quiet it. I felt primal, wild, utterly uncivilised. I thought I’d be embarrassed, but instead I felt empowered. Every sound was a testament to my strength. My daughter was born just after 6am as the morning light broke across our curtains, and the first words I said were, “I did it.”
We spent hours skin to skin. The midwives made toast and brewed tea like old friends. I felt dazed, powerful, emptied, and filled all at once.
There’s so much I treasure about my home birth but I also learned how much mindset affects experience. I wish I’d trusted sooner. I wasted precious hours doubting my instincts, waiting for permission to believe in my body. Next time, I’ll lean in faster. I’ll claim my space from the very start.
I’d also invite someone to document it. I thought I’d remember everything, but the intensity blurred so much. A few photographs, even candid ones, would’ve helped me anchor the memory. Not polished perfection, just real, honest glimpses of the moment.
And I’d prepare more for the aftermath. Recovery at home is beautiful but isolating. I didn’t anticipate how much I’d crave reassurance in those first 48 hours. Next time, I’ll have a plan: a postpartum doula, maybe, or even just scheduled check-ins with someone who’s walked this road before.