Trigger warning: This story briefly mentions sexual assault.
The house was filled with warmth, laughter, and the soft glow of holiday lights on Christmas Day. While everyone enjoyed the festivities at Daniel’s parents’ home, I quietly slipped away to the bathroom, my heart racing as I waited for the result of the pregnancy test in my hand. I was hopeful, imagining the joy of surprising my husband Daniel with an extra special gift this year. But when the test came back negative, a wave of disappointment hit me. I tried to brush it off, reminding myself it was still early in our journey. Yet beneath the surface, a knot of worry tightened. As a survivor of sexual assault, I had grappled with pelvic floor issues for years, always fearing that my past trauma might have impacted my ability to conceive.
The night before New Year’s Eve, that fear overwhelmed me. As Daniel and I lay in bed, I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. I confessed my anxieties, my fear that I might not be able to have children because of the damage done to my body over a decade ago. Daniel listened, his presence as steady and comforting as ever. I hadn’t taken a test since Christmas, but there was one left in the cabinet. Feeling vulnerable and raw, I fell asleep with tear-stained cheeks, deciding to take it the next morning but bracing myself for disappointment.
The following day, as the first light of New Year’s Eve crept through the window, I quietly crept into the bathroom. I took the test and set it on the counter, determined not to let my emotions take over. I went about my morning routine, trying not to think about it. Five minutes later, I finally looked down, and there it was—a faint second line. I stared in disbelief, my heart pounding. I was pregnant.
All those months I had imagined how I would tell Daniel the news—envisioned a clever, creative reveal that would take his breath away. But in that moment, all I could do was open the bathroom door, tears streaming down my face. Daniel, alarmed, jumped out of bed and rushed to me. He saw the test on the counter and wrapped me in his arms as I managed to whisper through my sobs, “I think we’re pregnant.” It was a moment filled with both terror and overwhelming joy.
We spent the morning confirming the results with more tests—each one solidifying the reality that we were going to be parents. We called our parents, wanting to share the news with our immediate families before telling our friends. But that evening, as we hosted our annual New Year’s Eve party, our secret didn’t last long. A close friend, who knew we had been trying, arrived and immediately started chatting with me about her son. I felt myself drift off into my thoughts, the reality of what was happening beginning to sink in. She must have noticed, because suddenly she blurted out, “You’re pregnant!” Within minutes, our entire friend circle knew our news.
Surprisingly, it felt good to have it out there. Daniel and I have always believed in openness, especially when it comes to shattering stigmas and supporting mental health. We figured that if things went wrong, we would rather have the support of our friends and family than live in secrecy for months.
The first trimester was tough. Nausea, headaches, and fatigue hit me hard, with a few vomiting episodes that were more comical than anything else—like the time I threw up on our poor dog and then had to give her a quick bath in the kitchen sink. My cravings were mostly for starchy, comfort foods, with little nutritional value. But then, the second trimester brought some relief. My energy returned, the nausea subsided, and I threw myself into nesting. The nursery was finished by five months, right around the time we found out we were having a boy.
Because of COVID restrictions, Daniel wasn’t allowed to attend the anatomy ultrasound with me. We had the technician write the gender on a piece of paper and seal it in an envelope. That evening, we met a close friend in our favorite park, where she tossed us a frisbee she had designed with the gender revealed on top. We had been so convinced we were having a girl. Everyone, from family members to our midwives, even my acupuncturist, had guessed girl based on my symptoms. But as the frisbee sailed through the air and I caught it, I saw the word “boy” and immediately burst into tears—not tears of joy, but of unexpected grief.
I hadn’t realized how much I had hoped for a girl until that moment. I felt devastated, grappling with the fear of raising a potentially privileged white male in today’s world. I spiraled into a deep depression, mourning the idea of the daughter I always wanted. This was a dark and unexpected turn. I began neglecting myself, skipping vitamins, eating poorly, and stopped exercising. I fell into a dangerous mindset where I didn’t care if I lost the pregnancy. It scared Daniel, and we knew we had to do something.
I had undergone Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation (TMS) for depression years before and found it effective. After researching its safety during pregnancy, we decided to try another round. For ten weeks, I went to daily sessions where magnetic pulses were administered to my brain. Slowly, the dark cloud lifted. I began to feel excited again, throwing myself into everything I could to ensure a healthy baby—weekly chiropractor visits, pelvic floor therapy, acupuncture, virtual birthing classes, and the occasional prenatal massage. I finally began to find some peace.
Daniel and I chose a home birth, even before COVID made it a more appealing option. I expected Daniel to be hesitant, to require convincing, given his analytical nature. But when I brought it up, ready with all my research and reasons, he surprised me. He listened, and with calm confidence, said he would need to do his research, but that he was on board. His support was unwavering, a constant source of strength.
Initially, we planned dual care with both homebirth midwives and my OBGYN, but it quickly became clear that the OB was unsupportive of our choice. After our second visit, where the doctor was cold and dismissive, we decided to stick solely with midwifery care. Our midwives were incredible, offering us the kind of attention and empathy that made all the difference. They addressed every fear, every worry, and were especially sensitive to my past trauma. They even suggested a “fear-clearing” exercise that Daniel and I found immensely helpful. We wrote down our fears about birth, crafted positive affirmations to counter them, and then physically discarded the list. It was cathartic, like shedding a heavy weight. Hearing Daniel’s fears allowed me to support him better, understanding the quiet anxieties he carried.
His biggest fear was feeling unneeded or pushed aside after the baby arrived. So, in the final months of pregnancy, I secretly wrote love letters to him, to be opened in the tough times after our son was born. It brought us closer together, and on difficult days, those letters often brought us both to tears, reminding us of the deep love we shared. I also took our affirmations and wrote them on our bedroom mirror in bright, bold letters. Every day, as I passed by, I saw those positive words reflected alongside my growing belly. They became a mantra, ingrained in my mind, ready to carry me through labor.
At 37 weeks, I was ready to be done with pregnancy. I had reached the magic number in Maryland, the point at which we could legally have a home birth. With everything in place and nothing left to prepare, I turned to walking to pass the time. Every day, I walked five miles in the park near our home, then came back and took a nap, letting the days blend together. I was exhausted, but there was also a sense of calm, a feeling that I had done everything I could to welcome our baby.
Of course, the one night I stayed up late was the night I went into labor. We had a small group of close friends over that evening, playing games and catching up. I planned to go to bed by 10, but the joy of their company kept me up until nearly 1 a.m. I finally crawled into bed, only to be jolted awake at 5 a.m. by a sudden, dramatic gush of water. My water had broken, and it was like a scene out of a movie—everywhere, all at once. I jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom, going through pad after pad, each one soaking through within minutes. Excitement and nerves coursed through me. I wasn’t feeling any contractions yet, but I knew it wouldn’t be long. I texted my midwives and woke Daniel, who looked at me with the kind of excitement that only comes once in a lifetime.
Then, the first contraction hit me, hard and fast. “Ooo, that was a good one,” I thought, and started timing them, just in case. They were already four minutes apart, and I struggled to find a rhythm, a way to cope with the intensity. I jumped into the shower, hoping the water would help. Daniel opened the door, phone in hand, so the midwife could listen to me through the contraction. Our close friend, who had stayed over that night, came in to help. Daniel called my doula who unfortunately was on vacation because I was three weeks early and she wasn’t anticipating for me to be in labor so soon. She sent a backup doula and I’ve never been so grateful in my life. Although I was indifferent in the moment because I was so set on having her be there and was devastated she couldn’t make it and my birth was starting out very different than what I thought more likely to happen.
The contractions intensified quickly, growing closer together with each passing moment. I couldn’t find a position that offered any relief. I told Daniel to fill up our bathtub, even though he was hesitant, worried about the possibility of infection or using up all our hot water. The day began in a way that felt almost surreal. As contractions intensified, Daniel conferred with the midwives, who calmly advised him to go ahead and fill up the birth tub. But to me, it seemed like everything was moving too slowly. I managed to send a text around 6:30 a.m., urging them to send someone immediately. Their response was swift—help was on the way.
The midwives arrived around 7:30 a.m. and guided me into the tub. Despite the soothing warmth, I couldn’t find relief in any position. The tools and techniques we had so carefully prepared, the rebozos, birth balls, compressions, and labor positions, suddenly felt useless. I was too far gone in labor land, too consumed by the intensity to care about anything but the primal force driving me. Soon enough the backup doula arrived and I started to feel relief. She did counterpressure and hip squeezes while I labored in the birth pool.
As I sat in the pool, the urge to push became overwhelming. I kept waiting for the transition, that telltale moment of doubt or nausea that never came. Instead, I convinced myself we still had hours to go, even as my body was already bearing down. The sounds that came from me were raw, animalistic, and they filled the room as I pushed with everything I had.
Somehow, in the midst of it all, our playlist played on. When "This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)" by Talking Heads began to play, it brought a wave of emotion crashing over me. That song, with all its significance, had been a lullaby from Daniel to our baby throughout my pregnancy. It was as if the universe had cued it up just for this moment. I hit a wall, and the only way through was to embrace it.
Within 30 minutes of that song, our son was born. It happened so quickly—his head emerged, and though I tried to slow down, my body had other plans. He was ejected into Daniel’s hands in one powerful push. Daniel brought him through my legs, and I sat there in the tub, staring down at this tiny human on my chest, utterly in disbelief at what had just happened. Everyone in the room was in tears, astonished by the fact that I had just experienced a 4.5-hour labor. Our baby boy was born on August 29 at 9:32 a.m., weighing 7 pounds, 12 ounces, and measuring 19 inches long.
The cord was short, but after it stopped pulsing, Daniel cut it. We had made it, but the birth was just the beginning. As I held our son, my midwives’ demeanor shifted from joyful to focused. I had lost a significant amount of blood—I was hemorrhaging. They immediately sprang into action, administering an IV drip, several shots of Pitocin, and even a catheter, all while calmly stitching me up. And all of this happened in the comfort of my own bed. The bleeding stopped quickly, and before long, I was able to hold my son again, to sing him "Happy Birthday," and to share a small, intimate celebration with our birth team, complete with his first birthday candle in the very room where he had been born.
Comments