The power of the birth story: A tale of reclaiming mine

When I was pregnant with my first child, I became obsessed with birth stories. I longed for the powerful words and images of motherhood, cradling my growing belly and imagining the way our story would unfold. My only rule was a happy ending so I skipped podcast episodes or scrolled past posts that didn’t fit this mold. I wanted to stay in the bliss of the perfect parenthood fantasy for as long as possible.

My first child arrived promptly on the first day of my maternity leave, 2 days ahead of his due date. Like a movie scene, my water broke in the kitchen and my husband was beside me with the hospital bag ready to go.

After one contraction and an epidural, I slept through transition, I gave two pushes and suddenly, we became parents. We had skin to skin and my heart flew as he did the breast crawl. Everything I hoped and planned for had come true. I credited my yoga practice and mind body connection to my perineum.

Family and friends flooded in to visit with favorite fancy cheeses I had avoided while pregnant, fawning over my boy and seemingly effortless birth. It was the happiest moment of my life.

If that were the end of this piece it would be lovely, because happily ever after is the dream. But, in complete contrast to my first, the birth of my second son is the greatest terror I have known.

This is the story of a birth that didn’t go as planned, of trauma that can steal the joy of motherhood and ultimately, of how I quite literally re-wrote our story to find healing. All birth stories are important. All feelings surrounding birth are valid. And the myth of perfect parenthood doesn’t exist.

My second pregnancy began just as the first. I stayed active and made it to full term. But there were a few major differences, even before delivery. The first was that I developed crippling obsessive-compulsive tendencies. My brain seemed primed for imminent doom. As a licensed mental health provider, It was torturous to be aware of my struggles. I was experienced in treating OCD, and yet unable to heal myself. Thankfully, my background led me to seek help both in medication and therapy. The intensity of the intrusive thoughts relented, but as I approached my due date I couldn’t shake the sensation of dread. Plagued by a sense of urgency to deliver, I scheduled an induction for a few days after 40 weeks.

My due date passed and on the morning of the induction, we woke at dawn in preparation for an early report time to the hospital only to receive a call just a few minutes later. It was late summer 2021 and even though I thought hospitals wouldn’t be as badly impacted by covid, I was wrong. Due to the surge in covid cases, they couldn’t accommodate my “elective” induction. I waited for a call over the next 36 hours, before my OB stepped in and insisted we be admitted.

My husband and I checked in with our masks, negative covid tests and settled in. My doctor arrived and things began as planned—Pitocin, a birthing ball. I labored without pain medication for a few hours before opting for the epidural. I assumed things would progress quickly, but time kept passing.

Eventually my labor stalled and, with my doctor busy, the hospitalist arrived to break my water. By pushing time, fear overcame me again. I turned to my husband, my mandatory mask wet with tears, and began to pray.

My doctor came back and I made my first push. Suddenly, she called for the hospitalist and for respiratory and told me to stop pushing. My doctor, who I knew generally avoided an episiotomy, asked my husband if I was allergic to eggs and that’s when I knew something was wrong. I remember hoping it was me who was in danger. I prayed silently to be able to birth him before I died. Nurses leapt onto my stomach, pushing downward with their body weight. The room flooded with masked professionals.

My baby was born blue. When the nurses shouted, “The tongue is still pink,” and he let out a cry, my husband and I shared a look of fearful relief.

My bruised baby was placed on my chest. He latched on right away and I felt a little relief.Things began to calm and my doctor said, “You experienced dystocia, one of the four birth emergencies.” She told me there’s a chance of permanent nerve damage but the APGAR test revealed he was in excellent health.

No visitors were permitted due to covid, so we spent the next two days in isolation. A large bruise I’d later understand as a Caput Succedaneum formed on the top of my son’s head as the rest of the bruises faded.

Alone and awake for 48 hours straight I Googled dystocia birth complications and my brain went into overdrive wondering how the rest of his life would be impacted. We were discharged and all I could tell anyone who asked about the birth was, “He was completely blue.”

I called his doctor daily but all she said was that developmental delays wouldn’t be evident until there were milestone markers to assess. The sight of the large bruise on his head was triggering. I hid it under hats and avoided catching it in pictures. I was obsessed with the thought that I didn’t want this to be his story. That I didn’t want to rob him of a perfect start. I cried daily for weeks.

My husband and oldest bonded with him quickly but I felt blocked by fears that, at any moment, luck would run out and I would find him completely blue, again.

I obsessed over milestones and mentally prepared myself to be a special needs parent. Slowly the bruise subsided and, as if he knew I needed him to, he met all his milestones early. My love for him grew deeper and the presence of two little people stretched the depths of my heart to infinite capacity. Eventually, his birth became a distant memory. But the thing about trauma is that it can always come back.

On his first birthday, I struggled with avoiding memories of his birth. As a therapist, I understood it was trauma but I dismissed my feelings. I told myself I didn’t deserve to call it that because I knew others whose pain exceeded my own. I felt guilty for all of the birth stories I avoided early in my journey because they didn’t fit the perfect story I wanted.

I processed it in therapy. Recounting the dichotomy of seeing my trauma and resisting the label. My therapist reminded me of a therapy technique known as Narrative Therapy, where you reframe your story from a different perspective, and I committed to giving it a try.

Days later, my story forms. I see a mother and child in battle together. The sight of my bruised son is replaced by the image of a woman cloaked in armor and carrying her baby through battle. It strikes me that I am that woman, and the battle is won.

Should you find yourself struggling to come to peace with your story, don’t be afraid to seek help. Celebrate joy and hold space for tears. There is healing from even the heaviest wounds.

Tell your stories mamas. This is how I choose to remember the birth of my second son.

The battle of birth

Some babies are born through a sea of sunshine, Or a gentle evening rain.

Some babies come forth from joyful smiles, Some babies come forth through pain.

Some stories start out with rainbow whispers and peaceful morning dew. But this is not those babies’ story,

This is the story of you.

From time to time a tiny babe tucked in mom’s body so warm,

Is forced to fight to come to light,

And a warrior baby is born.

When I knew inside my heart that you were ready to be

The world was sitting upside down and it was hard to get you free.

But there is nothing in this world that a parent wouldn’t do,

To take care of their children, so we went to battle for you.

Although this never will feel fair, and all births should be just,

A team of knights and healers showed up to battle with us.

You and I fought alongside this newfound team of friends,

And tore down all the brambles, making straight your path’s sharp bends.

And with gasping and shouting

full of fear and fierce fierce love,

The storm clouds quickly parted, and the sun broke through above.

And suddenly with great relief our epic battle was won.

And that’s the story of your birth,

my perfect warrior one.