C-sections have reached a peak of around 30% of births in the United States, as reported by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Elective cesareans are certainly not rare, and during my first pregnancy, I was filled with a sense of superiority. I spent many moments of my baby’s gestation, alternating between sweating profusely and standing with my head in the freezer for “just one more bite” of cookie dough ice cream, engrossed in literature about the supposed dangers of C-sections and their unnecessary toll on women’s bodies across the nation.
I convinced myself that C-sections only happened to those who weren’t as prepared as I was while I rolled on my birthing ball to optimize my baby’s position, practicing my hypnobirthing techniques. “C-sections are for women who take the easy way out, who don’t do enough yoga, or who forget their essential oils,” I smugly thought.
What a naive perspective I had.
I felt empowered knowing I had prepared for a natural birth, laboring alongside my supportive partner with lavender scents filling the room for a grueling 40 hours. I was determined, gripping the squat bar and channeling my inner warrior to bring my child into the world. We tried every position to help the baby descend, especially when our doctor expressed concern about her head being tilted.
But my self-satisfaction didn’t equip me for what lay ahead. When the doctor first mentioned, “Given how hard you’ve been pushing, this baby should be here by now,” I felt my heart sink. I looked at my partner, tears brimming in my eyes. This wasn’t how we envisioned our birth experience.
However, when the baby’s heart rate began to dip dangerously during contractions and the doctor mentioned the possibility of a cord around her neck, I quickly shifted my focus. The tears I had shed were for my own pride, not for the well-being of my child. In that moment, my only concern was for her safety, not my preconceived notions of childbirth.
When the time came for the C-section, I was overwhelmed with gratitude rather than fear. As the medical team worked, doing the unexpected, I felt a profound sense of relief when I heard my baby’s first cry.
Yet, I struggled to release my ego. I didn’t want to share the news of my C-section. If I did, I felt compelled to justify my experience, weaving a complex narrative to prove that I had genuinely tried for a natural birth and that intervention was necessary, with a competent doctor—not one of those who rush to surgery.
It’s natural to mourn the loss of the ideal birth you envisioned. However, I’ve come to accept what happened and refuse to let the nature of my childbirth define me. I am not obligated to explain that our lives were at risk to quell any judgment about being a “quitter.” I have no interest in hearing unsolicited advice from those who think they know better; after all, no one with staples in their abdomen and struggling to recover needs that.
I understand where they’re coming from, but I’ve learned not to judge anyone’s birthing journey. There’s no simple way out of childbirth, and anyone who has faced the challenges of recovery knows this truth. Childbirth is a complex and emotional experience—whatever path you took to get through it, whether you pushed for hours or asked for an epidural at the first sign of discomfort, you deserve recognition for your strength.
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In summary, my initial arrogance about childbirth did not shield me from the reality of needing a C-section. I’ve learned to embrace my experience and let go of the judgments I once held. Every birthing story is unique, and it’s important to honor and respect each journey.