My mother had nine children, and eight of her births were unmedicated. So when I went into labor in May of 2021, I wanted my own unmedicated birth experience.
I’d heard that laboring at home for as long as possible was helpful if you want to forego pain medications, so I did just that. Then, around 7 a.m. on a Saturday, my husband and I finally made our way to the hospital.
When we made it inside, I was taken to a triage room and the nurses told me that I was already 7 centimeters dilated. I was flooded with both surprise and relief. I couldn't believe I was so far along. This was really happening.
I remember a small grin making its way across my face and a nervous chuckle escaping my lips. Everything was going the way I'd wanted it to go so far.
Make plans and God laughs, the old Yiddish proverb says. Well, make a birth plan and God must surely be hysterical. Once back in the labor and delivery room, the unmedicated birth experience that I'd hoped for slowly began to unravel.
When the epidural was offered late into labor, I didn't think I had a choice but to take it
Hours after I was admitted, I felt an urgency to push — an intense, irresistible need to bear down. It felt like a consuming pressure that demanded every inch of my body's attention. This was it. This was the moment that I was about to deliver my son. I was about to feel the same fire and the magic my mom felt. Or so, that's what I thought was about to happen. But I was wrong.
“You can't push yet,” I recall one of the nurses telling me. Confused and upset, I questioned why. I was told that I was still 9 centimeters dilated and they needed me to reach full dilation in order to prevent the likelihood of cervical swelling and cervical tearing.
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At that moment, I felt like my body wasn't asking for permission — and yet, I was being made to wait. I was put in a place of choosing between trusting my body or trusting the medical professionals in the room.
I took their word.
As more time passed, the urge to push became harder to ignore. When I shared this with the medical team, they advised that I get an epidural as a way to numb the pain and therefore lessen my body's impulse to push.
During my pregnancy, I'd written down in my birth plan and discussed with my OB/GYN and husband that I wanted to stay away from getting an epidural, so it never crossed my mind that it would be offered to me this late in labor.
I honestly don't remember what words came out of my mouth. I just remember feeling like I had no other option.
My husband reminded me that I was adamant about not getting an epidural — yet moments later, he was sitting in front of me holding me steady while they stuck the needle in my back. In the thick of an exhausted, lethargic state from labor, I gave the medical team permission to administer the epidural.
At the same time that I felt a sense of physical relief, I also felt a heavy sense of defeat. I had tried so hard to avoid the epidural and had come so far in labor, only to end up getting it anyway. I dozed off right after that, until they woke me up and told me my baby was ready to be born.
When it came time to push, I was completely numb from the waist down. I couldn't feel myself pushing, and labor wasn't progressing as the doctors wanted it to. Even though they lowered the dosage of the epidural at one point, its effects had already set in. At some point, my husband got behind me and lifted me slightly from my shoulders to help give me extra strength while pushing. About 20 to 30 minutes later, our baby was born.
I was so out of it that I didn't cry when my son was placed on my chest. I felt a rush of joy that he was here, but it was quickly overwhelmed by feelings of detachment and disarray. Overall, I felt removed from the birthing experience of my first child. My body needed rest, and so did my mind.
I had to unravel my disappointment from the joy of new motherhood
Once at home, I'd find my mind running on those late, sleepless nights, questioning how disappointment and joy could share such space — and not knowing which one to lean into.
Those who I briefly opened up to about my feelings encouraged me to look on the bright side: My baby was here and he was healthy. I know that my friends and loved ones were well-intentioned. When birth goes relatively smoothly, society doesn't leave much room for new moms to grieve what didn't go according to plan. For a long time, I felt like I just had to be grateful — even though I was holding tangled emotions that coexisted.
I truly wasn't expecting birth to go exactly as planned. But those small disappointments add up, and the complex emotions create an internal wrestling match.
On one hand, I was happy that my son was born vaginally and that neither of us ran into any serious complications. On the other hand, I grieved how disconnected I felt by the fact that I got an epidural even though I didn't want one. I was basically an hour away from having the birthing experience that I desired. I went on to struggle with postpartum depression and never felt like I was afforded the room to grieve because my baby was born with no complications.
With my son approaching 4 years old, I realize now that I still haven't fully processed the depths of the emotions connected to my birth experience.
What has carried me through those emotions is the reminder that I did what I felt was needed in that moment. Now I have more awareness of what to consider and how to better advocate for myself when I have more children.
When I think back, I think of those bumps in the road that sent the pain swelling around my belly as my husband drove our Hyundai to the hospital on that warm summer day. I think of the bumps in the road that we faced through labor and delivery — getting the epidural, the moment things weren't progressing as they needed to, the defeat I felt. And then I think of how I got through each moment — with a very deep, very focused and very intentional breath.
Motherhood is unpredictable — our birth experiences are often the first of many chaotic currents we face. So when the pain swells, when the grief comes flowing in, when you feel like you aren't strong enough or made for this motherhood thing — let it tighten, and then breathe through it and prepare yourself for the next wave. If you can conquer one, you can surf them all.
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