Today is my oldest daughter’s 15th birthday, and this feels like the right moment to tell this story.
I want to honor the young and deeply naïve mother I was when she was born. The girl who trusted without knowing what questions to ask. The girl who didn’t yet understand her voice, her rights, or her power. This birth changed everything for me. Scarlet’s arrival is the reason I learned to question, to advocate, and to protect birth spaces the way I do now. It shaped the way I mother, the way I see birth, and ultimately the kind of doula I have become.
Trigger warning: traumatic hospital birth experience. If you are not in the headspace for birth trauma, please protect your heart and skip this post.
I was sixteen when I got pregnant with her, barely 17 the day she was born. I didn’t know anything about birth. And I truly mean that. I knew a baby would exit my body at some point, and I knew being pregnant was miserable. That part has never changed for me, even after having many babies. 
I didn’t know how birth worked, what choices existed, or that consent and autonomy even applied to laboring women.
I was offered a “for sure” baby day. An induction. I didn’t know what an induction was or what it meant for my body. I didn’t think about the calendar date, the day of the week, or what I wanted. I didn’t know there were questions I could ask. I was simply told that I would get to meet my baby that day, and I trusted that completely.
I woke up at 4am on January 11th and called the hospital to ask if they had a bed. They said they did. I took a shower, got ready, and headed in to meet my baby with so much excitement and so much innocence. I truly believed that everything that was about to happen was normal, necessary, and in my best interest.
When I arrived, I was told I was 3cm dilated. They said they would break my water and start Pitocin. I didn’t know what Pitocin was. I didn’t know that interventions can intensify labor or remove choice. I hated the IV immediately and complained that it hurt the entire time. At one point, I was told, “Well you shouldn’t have opened your legs if you didn’t want this to happen.” I didn’t yet know that birth workers should never speak to patients that way. I just swallowed it and stayed quiet.
I labored mostly in confusion. I wasn’t in much pain at first. I was just there, existing in the room, waiting for someone to tell me what came next. I remember feeling like I couldn’t stop peeing my pants. If you know, you know. At some point, the nurse came in and told me that if I wanted the epidural, I had to get it now or I wouldn’t get it at all. I wasn’t asking for it. I wasn’t afraid. But she insisted. I remember saying, “Well, I guess I want it?” Looking back now, with everything I know, I believe she simply didn’t want to deal with me.
Everyone I wanted with me was forced to leave the room. I was hunched over a pillow, shaking uncontrollably, trying to hold still while my body was clearly transitioning. I didn’t know that shaking was normal. I just knew I felt scared and alone. I still felt everything, including when the catheter was placed. The process felt long, invasive, and overwhelming in a way birth never should.
When I laid back down, the pressure was undeniable. It felt like a bowling ball in my butt. I told my nurse, “I think I have to push.” She mocked me and told me that as a first time mom, I had no idea what that feeling was like. I insisted again, because my body was louder than her words. She rolled her eyes and said, “Push if you want, but you’re just going to waste my time.”
I pushed.
Immediately, she shouted, “Oh sh*t, you’re crowning,” shut off my epidural, and ran out of the room. I lay there stunned and confused, unsure of what to do other than listen to my body and wait for the next contraction. People flooded the room. My ex MIL, my step mom, my boyfriend at the time. I had clearly stated I did not want his mother present, but at that point my wishes felt invisible so I didn’t bother speaking up. I felt preyed upon because I was vulnerable.
The OB came in and started yelling at me to get mad. I stopped pushing and looked at him, completely confused. Mad? I was about to meet my baby. Why would I be mad?
My ex MIL complained about hair. I stopped again, because seventeen year old me thought she meant me. She clarified, “Not you. The baby.” I remember feeling small and embarrassed in a moment that should have been exciting and full of joy. I turned inward, focused, and pushed. Within twenty minutes, I gave birth to a beautiful 7 pound 14 ounce baby girl with a full head of jet black hair.
She was taken from me immediately.
Nothing was wrong. There was no emergency. That was just protocol. I lay there empty and stunned while other people held my baby. My ex MIL and ex boyfriend held her before I ever did. I waited a long time to finally hold my own child. When I did get to hold her, it was short lived and seemed more like a bother than a sacred moment. No one looked out for me, they were all focused on what they wanted. No one protected skin to skin. No one mentioned a golden hour. No one supported breastfeeding. I didn’t even know those things were options.
After about an hour of everyone else holding her, my baby was taken to the nursery. I didn’t see her again for six hours. I missed her first bath. I missed the beginning I didn’t even know to ask for. It was “just what was done,” and it left a sadness that stayed with me long after the hospital stay ended.
Her birth is the reason I chose differently for her siblings. It is why I learned about informed consent and advocacy. It is why I am fiercely protective of birthing people and their autonomy. It is why I do the work I do now. It is why I chose differently with my subsequent babies.
I would do so many things differently if I could go back. But I honor the girl I was then. She did the best she could with what she knew. And she brought the most incredible human into the world.
Please hire a doula. Even if it’s not me. Even if you take nothing else from my page or content.
Hire the doula because birth is not just about getting a baby out. It is about being seen, heard, and protected in one of the most vulnerable moments of your life. It is about having someone in the room whose only job is you. Someone who explains what’s happening when the room gets loud and confusing. Someone who reminds you that you can ask questions, slow things down, or say no.
A doula is not just advocacy. It is reassurance when doubt creeps in. It is someone who recognizes transition when no one else is listening to you. It is someone who believes you when you say, “Something is happening.”
It is support when your voice feels small. It is protection when your consent matters. It is someone who holds space for your experience, not just the outcome.
If this story resonates with you, or if you’re preparing for your own birth and want to learn more about what support can look like, my website is always there as a starting point. If I’m not the right fit, my hope is that you find the kind of care every birthing person deserves. It can simply be a place to gather information and begin.
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