The following is a description of my birth stories as seen through my eyes. I am not discrediting anyone else’s experiences with medicalized birth. There is a place for everything. Of course, freebirth is not for everyone. Ultimately, a woman should give birth where she feels the safest.

My journey to free birth all began with my first pregnancy and birth.

While I was pregnant with my son in 2016, I was working as a therapist within the hospital system. I’ll admit, I was not yet in my power. At the time, I viewed authority as something outside of myself. Supervisors, management, older and more experienced therapists, and health insurance companies all served as my “authority.” I was a people-pleasing, just say “yes'“ kind of person. On top of that, I knew NOTHING about pregnancy and birth. Having done zero research on anything, I trusted the “experts.”

My pregnancy was typical. I received all the standard medical prenatal “care” because I thought it was the right thing to do to keep me and my baby safe. Ultrasounds, blood titers, vaccines, blood glucose test, non-stress tests, a membrane sweep, you name it. It took me some time to realize none of this was necessary and most importantly, none of it has been shown to improve birth outcomes. The truth is, most women aren’t presented with the options. What can I say, coercion and fear-mongering is pervasive within the medical birth model. I recognize that it was a combination of giving my power away and having my power taken away. I’m certainly not saying all medical providers are inherently “bad.” They do take an oath to “First, do no harm” and therefore, truly believe they are helping you. On top of that, I didn’t know how to advocate for myself.

Birth is not a medical event.

Most medicalized providers view birth as a medical event requiring intervention. Many of us view them as the savior, there to rescue our baby from the *gasp*, toxic womb. We’ve normalized this view with common questions like, “Who ‘delivered’ your baby?” Unless there is surgery to have your baby removed via cesarean; the Mother delivers her own baby. Her body does the work to bring the baby down the birth canal. She builds the baby with her own blood, breath, and cellular intelligence. No one else.

Here’s the thing: Birth is Unpredictable. Like the Feminine, it is wild, primal, and animalistic. It does not belong within the confines of sterile rooms with bright, fluorescent lights, wire connecting you to beeping machines, and cold, metal instruments. These very things work against the physiological birth process. Physiological birth requires darkness, warmth, quiet, trust, privacy, familiarity, love, and sense of safety. It is very difficult, if not impossible, to have all of these things within the hospital setting.

How we live is how we birth and how we birth is how we live.

At 38 weeks pregnant, it was suggested to me by a CNM (certified Nurse Midwife) that I be induced that day. This was in response to a high(ish) blood pressure reading upon arrival. I’ve always had an initial high reading due to some some low-key “white coat anxiety.” After taking it for the second time about 10 minutes later, it was within normal limits. My husband, who was also present for this visit, proceeded to go off on this medwife, in efforts to protect me and this baby. I say medwife because Midwife means “with woman” and she was by no means standing with me or supporting my sovereignty. She said something along the lines of “It’s your body. Just know that all your organs will eventually fail and die if you don’t induce today” and then stormed out of the room. After this encounter, I should have found another care provider, but I didn’t. I was scared and I certainly didn’t know my options. I felt like I had to stay with this practice due to my insurance and with it being so close to my birth.

I made it to 41 weeks and 3 days despite the constant barrage from the OB/GYN . Going over 40 weeks required frequent non-stress tests, which for the record, are extremely stressful. The medical system really likes to adhere to their “due” dates. There was constant fear mongering throughout those weeks, trying to convince me to consent to an induction, even though every ultrasound showed ample fluid and a happy baby. (Side note: consent cannot exist with coercion present). I now know there is a wide range for normal gestation: anywhere from 36-44 weeks. I’ve even know a womann who went to 45 weeks. In any case, the baby decides when they will come, and they always do.

Birth is a divinely timed event that’s written in the stars.

During one of those stressful “non-stress” tests, it showed my son’s heartbeat decelerating after contractions. This can be due to wide range of things that we won’t get into here. None the less, I was sent straight to the hospital from the GYN. I was frantic and scared. “What was happening?” I thought. When I arrived, I was hooked up to another Doppler. His heart beat had resumed normal rhythms and there were no signs of distress. Regardless, there were several providers coercing me to induce labor today. “Your placenta is old and not able to support your baby anymore. Every minute past 40 weeks increases your risk of stillbirth, “ they said.

Now terrified of losing my baby, I finally submitted. At this point, I entered a trauma response. I felt myself disassociate and leave my body. I spent that night in the hospital with a foley bulb balloon inserted in my yoni, slowly prying my cervix open. By morning, I was 4 cm. I had barely slept and was exhausted.

“Now we just need to get your contractions going,” the OB on told me. The nurse wheeled in a giant, industrial breast pump and proceed to hook me up to it. Needless to say, this felt incredibly de-humanizing. “Alternate fifteen minutes on and then fifteen minutes off until we get your contractions going,” she directed me.

A few hours later and my contractions were stronger, but still pretty irregular. My doula suggested that my husband and I have some private time to "get things going.” All nurses and staff left the room while Ben and I got busy in the shower. I look back on this forced sexual act and cringe. It was the opposite of romance. Nothing is less appealing that trying to make love in a cold, sterile hospital room. Yuck. My womb carried the energetic imprint of this encounter for a long time.

Thankfully, my contractions did pick up after that. Active labor came on strong and fast. I wasn’t ready. Unbearable contractions descended upon me. I felt like I was drowning. There was no where for me to go. I was surrounded by bright fluorescent lights, beeping machines, and hospital personnel. Due to testing postitive for Group B Strep, I was required to have IV antibiotics every couple of hours. I felt like a trapped animal. Every so often I was approached by a student OB asking to check my cervix. I submitted every.single.time. It was painful and took me out of my flow. They told me numbers that made me feel far from birth. I know now I was in transition and my baby was close to emergence.

I felt a primal, wild woman locked inside me and I couldn’t let her out.

Not here. Not under these circumstances.

This was the place to say “yes” and be the good girl. I kept thinking, if I made too much noise, I may have disrupted the other birthing women. It felt like I was a performer on stage and everyone else was the spectators and judges. I had granted all my power to the hospital. They were now my authority.

The sensations grew more intense. I began to wonder if something was wrong. I could feel my body opening. I saw my body fractalize into a billion pieces. An aspect of myself was watching from above. My body began to push without me trying (now I recognize this as the fetal ejection reflex). The OB instructed me to stop pushing because “it wasn’t time yet.”

I remember thinking, “What?! How do I stop this freight train?” At that point, I lost any last remaining trust in my body’s wisdom. I put full trust in the external authority of the medical staff and technocracy. Trying to hold back my body’s natural desire to push was so painful. I turned my back on her and it would take a long, long time to mend that trust.

With no place left to go, I decided to numb out. I said to my husband and doula, “I can’t do this anymore. I want an epidural.” After groaning and howling as I signed an eternity of papers, and then a traumatic blown vein later, I received the epidural. It was just enough to dull the pain; I could still feel my legs. Afterwards, I felt so cold. I was shaking and shivering, teeth chattering on the hospital bed while wearing an oxygen mask. I felt broken, powerless, and pathetic. “Just rest now. Take a nap.” My doula suggested. She left to grab a snack and get some fresh air. My husband Ben remained by my side.

I lay there wondering, “What just happened?” I had no words. I was scared. Suddenly I felt like I was a problem, like I was taking too long and taking up too much space.

I realize that it wasn’t just one decision that led me there. It was ALL of them.

Just moments after receiving the epidural, my room was rushed with the staff again. “Your baby’s in distress. His heart rate is dropping. Let’s check your dilation,” they ordered. “She’s 10 cm!” They declared. One last cervical check and it was confirmed that my son was in the birth canal. “You can start pushing!” The OB instructed. No shit. I could have told you that.

Ben receiving our son with gloves per hospital policy.

I was helped onto all fours with my face towards the head of the bed. I felt nothing. The nurse instructed me to watch the monitor and to push when the line spiked, which indicated a contraction. This took me even further out of my body. I felt so disconnected. I had no idea when my baby was close. I felt no “ring of fire” as my baby was crowning.

Ben received our son into gloved hands, making latex my son’s first touch.

“Grab your baby! Here he is!” They all shouted. Except, I couldn’t maneuver my half-numb body around with all the wires and cords. After some clunky repositioning and assistance from the staff, I had my son in my arms.

He was pink and crying. I cried with him as I reassured him everything is okay now. I soothed him saying, “I know that was so hard and scary. You did it! Welcome home. I love you so much.”

After this point of initial bonding, my son was whisked away to be weighed and measured. I had requested delayed cord clamping. Of course, in the hospital that means maybe 5 minutes at most. Thankfully my son was born healthy and with no complications. He latched quickly and began nursing effortlessly. For this, I am beyond grateful.

I spent the next 3 days/2 nights in the hospital for monitoring. Those days felt long. We barely slept as hospital personnel were in and out of my room 24/7 for tests for the baby, to check my vitals, and to painfully palpate my uterus. It all felt so unnecessary (and truly was and I learned later on). The first meal I had after giving birth was fried chicken from the cafeteria; not the warm nourishing home cooked meal I so desired. The kitchen was closed and that was the only option besides graham crackers or apple sauce.

I had also torn during the birth and was given sutures shortly thereafter. The healing process was painful. I was NOT prepared for the intense burning and throbbing pain every time I used the bathroom for the first week. It took me a while to invite intimacy back into my life. My yoni felt closed down indefinitely. Would I have torn if I didn’t receive the epidural? Maybe. Would I have received an epidural if I hadn’t been induced? Unlikely. These are all questions I will never know the answers to. However, I know what’s true in my heart.

I was praised for having a “successful” vaginal birth. “You did it!” My friends and relatives all commended me.

Yet, I still felt like I was missing something. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it then. It took the next 4 years of unpacking my own birth trauma and unlearning the medical birth model.

My inner compass was leading me to a completely different birth experience. This time it was going to be on my terms.

I was ready to reclaim my power.

End of Part 1.

To be continued…

My Path to Freebirth (Part 1)