no, my body wasn't made for this
my birth story
They tell you that your body was made for this. That childbirth is the most natural thing it can do. They tell you that it’s beautiful and magical, and for some, it truly is! But I can’t help but feel my experience was anything but.
I have always resented those types of comments, even long before I decided to have a child of my own. They felt overly simplistic, optimistic and dismissive — glazing over the countless women who have had difficult pregnancies or childbirths, if they were lucky to be able to have them at all. But it wasn’t until I experienced it for myself that I felt validated in feeling that resentment.
My birth story is far from the worst out there, but one I hope will remind people that it’s okay if pregnancy, childbirth and even breastfeeding doesn’t feel “natural” to them. That it’s okay if they don’t feel like their body was “made for this.” One that will remind those who do make those general statements — no matter how well intentioned — to think twice before saying it the next time. And that there are people who have and will experience pregnancies or births that don’t feel magical or beautiful, but difficult and traumatic.
In countless conversations surrounding childbirth and even after my own birth, I was told by multiple women, “Oh, don’t worry — you forget.” They attempted to comfort me by telling me that I wouldn’t remember the pain once I have my baby in my arms. But my question is, why are we so quick and eager to minimize and dismiss women’s pain? And who benefits when generalizing that childbirth is natural and our bodies were made for this, when 1 in 3 birthing people report feeling traumatized by their experience?
When we do this, not only are those who have less than positive births forced to confront an extremely difficult experience, but also feel immense shame on top of it — shame that our bodies have failed us, when in reality, birth trauma is much more common than we think. So much so, that I can instantly recall examples from my own friends, like Alyssa and Amrit, who have also recently shared their difficult childbirth experiences.
Melissa Mason talks about this shame: “It plays directly into the hands of repressive sexism. The toxic pressure for women to suffer in silence. To paste a smile on our faces so we don’t disturb or disrupt.”
If we don’t name how difficult it is — whether it be childbirth, pregnancy or breastfeeding — how will we ever get the support we need? When the constant narrative is that motherhood is simply magical and beautiful, is it any wonder why there is a lack of community, care and consideration?
In her book, author Orna Donath asks, “Is it possible that women are implored to forget — to detach themselves from what they know, think and feel — because it allows society to continue to create injustices while simultaneously pretending that everything is all right?”
My intention is not to scare people from embarking on this journey, but to push back on the dismissive and generalized suggestion of “just do it” when it comes to making a life-changing decision like this. While there are of course positive birth stories that should be heard and celebrated, it would be a detriment to women if we act like that’s the norm. We deserve to hear various perspectives on such a transformative experience. We deserve to have a fuller picture when deciding what we’d like our bodies and minds to undergo. We deserve to be reminded that having a negative birth experience — and talking about it — doesn’t take away from the love and gratitude we feel when our baby is here.
I am so thankful for those who told me the truth about their experiences — both the good and bad — so that I was able to make a more informed decision for myself. If they hadn’t, I’d imagine I would have felt completely blindsided and more hurt than I already was. That my experience was somehow a fault of mine rather than one many can relate to.
But before diving into my birth story, I should probably back up a bit.
I was fortunate to have a pretty easy pregnancy — one free from morning sickness and intense pain. So when I had some mild itching behind my knees and around my groin late into my third trimester, I didn’t think much of it. Still, I brought it up at an appointment when my doctor asked if I had any other questions or concerns. She didn’t seem worried and said she’d order a blood test for me, just to be sure.
A week later, I got a call from my doctor. My blood test results had come back and I was told I had cholestasis, a rare disorder developed from a pregnancy hormone that slows down the function of the liver. I then was told that this condition made my pregnancy high risk and that my baby was now in danger for preterm labor or still birth, one of the worst things you can hear as an expecting mother. I would have to come in for additional tests and would have to be induced — just one week from that day. Instead of carrying my baby to term at 40 weeks, I was suggested by two doctors that it would be best to get her out at 37 weeks.
My partner and I were shocked and anxious. Tears were shed. Google searches about the condition and its risks were nonstop. My pregnancy had been completely healthy up until that point and we thought we did everything “right” — I ate healthy, I went to the gym or prenatal yoga nearly every day, I avoided the foods we were told to avoid... With only a few weeks to go, we thought we were in the clear. Throughout my entire pregnancy and even during the induction, doctors and nurses would tell me after check ups and ultrasounds how happy my baby was in my womb, yet my womb became a dangerous place for her to be. While we were sad and scared, we knew the best route was to follow the doctors’ suggestions for an induction.
My induction was far from natural, which is to be expected as it’s a process where birth is initiated before it happens on its own, usually when there are medical concerns about the mother or baby. Still, what took place in those three days leading up to the eventual birth made me feel — over and over again — like my body wasn’t made for this.
On the day of my induction, I checked into the hospital, where I was placed in a private room and hooked up to an IV and monitoring devices. Soon after, I was given Misoprostol to soften and dilate my cervix and induce contractions. At this point, I was 1.5cm dilated and 60% effaced. I would be given up to 6 of these pills, each 4 hours apart until I was dilated enough for active labor. During these first four hours, my nurse allowed me to walk around and use my exercise ball to help progress my labor. After that, I was bed bound and hooked up to different monitors for the rest of the labor. In the following 16 hours, I took 4 more of those pills. While my contractions were getting stronger, they didn’t hurt much and were tolerable enough to sleep through. I saw the confusion in the nurses’ faces when they asked what my pain level was and I replied that it was a 2 out of 10. I hoped that I just had a high pain tolerance.
At 11am the next day, the midwife came in to decide if I should take the sixth and final pill or move on to a different induction method. She checked my cervix. It had softened but there was zero progression for dilation. Zero. My heart sank. After 20 hours and 5 pills, my cervix was still only 1.5cm dilated.
She then suggested we try the Foley Balloon, a catheter-like device that is inserted into the vagina and inflates like a balloon, putting pressure on the cervix to help it dilate — a process that could take up to 12 hours. To help with the pain, I was given morphine, which immediately made me feel loopy, drowsy and nauseous, causing me to throw multiple times, even with the anti-nausea medicine I took alongside it. It was at this point that I had to stop eating, despite needing energy for what was to come.
5 hours later, they removed the Foley Balloon and saw that I had reached 3.5cm, which was still not enough to put me into active labor. So around 5pm, they put me on Pitocin through an IV drip to further my contractions.
After 12 hours, we learned that the Pitocin only progressed me half a centimeter — from 3.5cm to a measly 4cm. It felt like nothing was working. Still, we needed to keep trying. So when they suggested to break my water, I agreed.
At around 5am, they performed an amniotomy, where the midwife intentionally broke my amniotic sac to progress my labor. Finally, my contractions became more frequent and began to hurt. I asked for the epidural. As my contractions progressed, though, we saw a change in our baby’s heart rate. Every time I had a contraction, her heart rate would dip. The nurses tried putting me in different positions to see if it would help, but when that was unsuccessful, they suggested I get an amnioinfusion, which would add fluid back into my uterus to replace the amniotic fluid they had released in order to stabilize our baby’s heart rate. A tube and catheter were inserted vaginally in order to do this.
After another 8 hours, the midwife came in to check my cervix and told me good news — I was finally fully dilated and was ready to start pushing. For the next 4 hours, that’s exactly what I did. I pushed on my back with my legs propped onto stirrups. I pushed on my sides with the nurse, my mom and husband holding my legs. I even tried pushing on all fours. I pushed despite not having enough food or sleep. I pushed and pushed and pushed until I was too weak and tired to effectively push any more. The nurse suggested I take a break and brought the midwife back to check on my progress. Our baby was still not low enough. She told us that if I didn’t push her out in the next 30 minutes, we would have to go with the last resort — a c-section.
I was exhausted but determined. I pushed harder than I ever had. I felt immense pressure in my vagina. The nurse told us with excitement that she could see our baby’s head and that she had black hair — my husband and I burst into tears. It felt so close. I kept going. We thought it would happen.
At 6:30pm when my half hour was up, the midwife and doctor came in and checked me. They said our baby wasn’t close to coming out and that both my inner vagina and our baby’s head were swelling and that if I pushed any more, we would both face more risk. I needed to have a c-section immediately. I was heartbroken. As the nurses prepped my body for surgery, my husband gathered our things and changed into the required protective gear while my mom kissed me on the cheek with tears in her eyes after witnessing all that I had gone through.
For 53 hours my body and mind had been put through one failed induction method after another — Misoprostol, the Foley Balloon, Pitocin and breaking my water — and on top of that, hours of strenuous pushing, only to result in me having to be surgically cut open for our baby to finally arrive.
What followed felt like a blur. I fell asleep in the operating room and woke up in a daze as my husband walked through the door and as the doctors and nurses were just about to operate. While I was thankful to not feel anything physically during the surgery and to be in a positive mood (albeit with the help of even more drugs) rather than feeling scared and anxious, I look back and wish I could have been more present and aware when seeing our baby for the first time. While most might describe that moment as significant, magical and emotional, to me, it felt detached, unserious and almost silly. I remember the doctor presenting our daughter to us over the blue curtain, as if he pulled a rabbit out of a hat, and me laughing in disbelief. It was surreal. It was hard to believe that she really came from me because I didn’t see it or feel it happen.
In contrast, the next couple days felt like a crystal clear nightmare. We were placed in the postpartum wing of the hospital and while I am so grateful for the care the nurses provided me, what I remember most is this: looking down and seeing elephant trunks for legs, so swollen and heavy I could hardly pick them up, let alone walk. A catheter and IV hooked up to my body, making me immobile. A dressing over where my incision was made. The burning pain I felt in my lower abdomen when I attempted to make even the smallest of movements. Our baby’s inconsolable crying as I looked at my husband and burst into tears after finally processing what had taken place those past few days. Nurses coming in to check mine and my baby’s vitals every few hours, even as we were trying to finally get some sleep, and them pushing me to breastfeed more than I already was, despite the state of pain, hunger and exhaustion I was in.
The disappointing feeling that my body wasn’t made for this didn’t just stop at labor and delivery — it was only further ingrained as I navigated breastfeeding.
As I attempted to recover from the major surgery I had just undergone, nurses came into my room at all hours of the day, urging me to improve my baby’s latch and to hand express my breasts to make milk come out. When I asked them to help my baby latch onto my left breast, the one she kept refusing, even they couldn’t get her to do so. I vividly remember one nurse in particular aggressively forcing my baby’s mouth onto my nipple over and over again as my baby screamed in distress, with no success. Nurse after nurse squeezed at my breasts, trying to draw colostrum out of them and failing — giving up themselves and saying with a shrug, “It’s more effective when your baby sucks it out anyway.”
Nurses and peers alike tell you “breast is best.” They assure you that your baby will get exactly what they need from you. They tell you that the more you nurse, the more your supply will come in. And when it doesn’t, they urge, “Breastfeed more. Pump at every feed. Take these supplements. Eat this. Drink that.” Again, they remind you that your body was made for this.
But it’s not always that simple. There are countless women who have been told that their body was made to breastfeed and that if it’s not working, they’re just not trying hard enough. As a result, many of these women try every tip and trick out there, only to discover that perhaps for them, to no fault of their own, that isn’t true.
I was fed the same talking points. That my body would produce exactly what my baby needed. That there was no need for formula. But just a few days later, at my baby’s first weigh-in, we discovered she had lost 9% of her body weight and that I would indeed need to feed her formula to help her regain it and grow at a healthy rate.
In the weeks after the birth, I went to multiple lactation consultations, and at each one, learned that the amount of milk my body was producing was not enough — despite my baby’s ability to latch and the fact that I actually enjoyed breastfeeding. I began to pump to see the amount I was able to produce in one sitting for myself. It was minimal. If I had relied purely on my breast milk to feed my baby as many of the nurses suggested, she would have starved.
I turned to the internet to see if there were others who experienced the same — the constant pressure to exclusively breastfeed while knowing it wouldn’t be enough.
One mother expressed how much more helpful it would be if people would acknowledge that some simply can’t produce enough milk and that in those cases, formula is needed, rather than offering countless well meaning but ultimately useless advice that suggests those who aren’t exclusively breastfeeding aren’t trying hard enough.
Another said, “My biggest pet peeve is when people tell me that women have been doing this for thousands of years... *Some* women have successfully done it for thousands of years. Sadly, many women and babies died for thousands of years without modern medicine... The historical progression of birth complications or a poor milk supply wasn’t that ‘it worked out eventually.’”
Melissa Mason shared her experience with breastfeeding:
“I didn’t anticipate a traumatic birth, a big, hungry baby, the darkest mental health hole I’d ever experienced and boobs that just didn’t cooperate, no matter how many times I practiced his latch or how many consultants I saw…
I feel ashamed. I feel guilty. I cry daily as I drop a pumping session and watch my milk levels deplete…
Could I have pushed through? Did I not try hard enough? What about those mothers with bleeding nipples who make it work? Am I not resilient enough? Tough enough?”
In her post she continues: “With breastfeeding, [criticism is] compounded by health messaging that lacks nuance and compassion for those of us who, for whatever reason, just can’t feed our babies with our bodies.”
And that’s exactly it. The messaging surrounding breastfeeding — along with childbirth and pregnancy, might I add — often lacks nuance and compassion. For some, these stages of motherhood may come naturally — and that is truly beautiful, wonderful and worth celebrating. But for many others, like myself and the women whose perspectives I’ve shared above, it’s not that simple.
My pregnancy was smooth until it wasn’t. My birth was long, intense and ended in a way I had only feared. Almost every bullet point on my “birth plan” (I called them “birth preferences”) went out the window. The milk I produced during breastfeeding and pumping was simply not enough, despite what I was urged to believe. I was told that my body was made for each of these stages, yet my body proved otherwise.
My body didn’t feel made for this when I learned that my womb was a dangerous place for my baby to be.
My body didn’t feel made for this when I labored for 3 days and pushed for another 4 hours and still needed surgical intervention.
My body didn’t feel made for this when I discovered it produced far less milk than what my child needed to grow and survive.
I share my experience not to scare or overwhelm, but to expand the narrative. Because the stories we share about motherhood — and the journey to get there — shape how we prepare for it and make sense of what happens to us. If all we’re told is that it’s magical, empowering and “what our bodies were made to do,” we risk leaving many women feeling blindsided or ashamed when their experiences don’t match up.
For some, this journey does feel natural and beautiful. For others, like me, it feels complicated and even traumatic. Whether one finds their experience to be on one end or the other — or somewhere in between — their story deserves to be heard. Because when we share more honest and nuanced versions of what this journey can look like, we are able to remind one another that we’re not alone and are just as capable and deserving of motherhood all the same.