My plan for baby #3 was simple and sacred: a physiological home birth, surrounded by the people who have held me through so much — my husband and children, my midwives and my dear friends (who lucky for me are doulas and my partners at The Birthkeepers Collective). After years of personal growth and doula training, I felt informed, empowered, and ready. I trusted birth, trusted my body, and trusted the process.
But in my third trimester, everything shifted.
We received a heartbreaking diagnosis within our family that sent me into survival mode. Suddenly, I wasn’t sleeping. I could barely eat. Anxiety lived in my chest day and night. My body, so wise and attuned, responded in the only way it knew how — with rising blood pressure. Eventually, I was diagnosed with pre-eclampsia.
As a doula, I knew the signs. I understood the risks. But as a mother carrying the weight of grief and stress, I couldn’t prioritize myself the way I wanted to. By 37 weeks, my labs were worsening. By 39 weeks, with heavy hearts and full trust in my midwives, we made the call to transfer care and plan for a hospital induction.
On January 19th, I got the call.
I was admitted with a clear and intentional plan: minimal interventions unless absolutely necessary. My midwives had prepped the hospital team, and I was met with so much compassion and respect from every nurse. Hannah and Shay (my best friends and fellow doulas with The Birthkeepers Collective) stood by me, while my husband stayed close with our kids — ready to be called when it was time to push.
At 3:00pm, my midwives broke my waters and brought in the breast pump — the only intervention I had consented to for the first 4–8 hours. My body was close. I’d already been 7cm for nearly a week, riding the waves of prodromal labor.
We softened the room with candles and warm light. Then the rhythm began: pump, walk, repeat.
Between surges and stimulation, something sacred unfolded — the kind of sisterhood that holds you through transformation. With the TENS machine on my back and two of my best friends by my side, we walked the halls of the hospital laughing, sharing stories, grounding each other in presence and joy.
Even as things began to intensify, they never let the energy shift into fear. Their comfort and confidence became my anchor. I felt deeply held — body, heart, and spirit.
Our first walk didn’t do much — contractions stayed irregular — so we returned to the room for another pumping session around 4:00pm. That’s when the shift happened. Contractions kicked in every two minutes, quickly growing in intensity. Another walk spaced them slightly, but the sensations deepened. My body was speaking clearly.
My husband and daughter arrived to drop off electrolytes. I still believed we had time — but thankfully, my doulas knew better. They told him to stay.
We planned one last 10-minute walk to check progress. Almost immediately, I couldn’t walk through contractions anymore. I began to sway, breathe, and root down. The pain was never overwhelming — just powerful and all-encompassing.
Then came the shaking. I knew what it meant: transition.
As we passed the nurses’ station, I was stopped by a contraction and asked to wait — someone else was being wheeled to the OR. And then, with the next surge, everything changed. The storm became a wave I could no longer hold back. The fetal ejection reflex had taken over. I resisted the urge to push for a few more contractions until I could safely make it back to my room.
We barely made it.
I dropped to all fours — still fully clothed — as my team helped me undress and climb onto the bed. Second stage began instantly. It felt eternal, but in reality, it was less than 10 minutes.
Surrounded by love — my husband, daughter, and closest friends — I roared our baby into the world. My hair was tied back for me. Electrolytes were offered. Affirmations were whispered into my ear. I felt held, seen, and strong.
And then… she was here.
I reached down and lifted her to my chest, tears and joy flooding the room. “A girl,” I announced — even though we all somehow already knew. Goldie latched beautifully within minutes. We exhaled. She was healthy, whole, and ours.
I had opted for no active third stage management, so we waited for the placenta. About 30 minutes later, contractions returned, and I felt an unexpected intensity. Birthing the placenta took real effort — I had to push while nursing, which was far from the multitasking I had envisioned! Eventually, I asked my midwife to assist by gently guiding the cord. When it finally released — it felt like victory. I had crossed into the fourth trimester.
Just one stitch, a few grazes, and about 90 minutes later, my husband helped weigh our daughter: 8lbs 15oz — our biggest baby yet! We made them double-check.
And then — my blood pressure, which had been the concern of my final weeks, dropped almost immediately. Just two hours postpartum, we were cleared for discharge. We packed up, walked out, and returned home.
We climbed into bed and stayed there — wrapped in a cocoon of love, skin to skin, with our newborn miracle and a heart full of gratitude.
This birth was not the one I had planned — but it was still beautiful, still physiological, and still mine. It reminded me that surrender is a form of strength, and that we can still experience autonomy and empowerment even when plans change.
To every mother navigating uncertainty, induction, or unplanned hospital birth: you are still birthing in power. You are worthy of softness, respect, and support — no matter where or how your baby is born.
Birth is sacred. Always.