The Day I Met My Daughter: A Story of Beauty, Pain, and Becoming

Eight years ago, on the sunniest and warmest spring day, I met my beautiful, perfect baby girl for the very first time. She was born at 13:11, and I still remember how it felt to hold her in my arms while being cradled in the arms of my husband - the love of my life. We were both completely exhausted after an intense 8-hour labour that felt like it had swallowed time and space.

We didn’t know her gender beforehand. Partly because we wanted that delayed gratification after 9 months of waiting (and guessing!), and partly - well, if I’m honest - because I was afraid of having a girl. A story for another time ;). But I’ll never forget the moment the midwife asked if we wanted to know, and I realised I hadn’t even checked. That’s how overwhelmed and cracked open I was in that moment - holding our baby and still trying to process everything I had just gone through.

And that’s what I want to talk about - the birth.
Not the postpartum part - that chapter, too, was the most difficult and confusing time of my life, and I’ll share that someday. But for now, I want to share what it was like to give birth, in hopes that someone out there feels a little less alone.

Two days before my due date, I had what felt like a normal, beautiful day. I rode my bike, had cake and coffee with some amazing women from my birthing class. We were all floating somewhere between excitement, fear and that innocent cluelessness that only first-time parents get to feel. I loved being pregnant. Truly. I hardly remember the aches or spiraling emotions now. I felt radiant. Grounded. Romantic about motherhood. It was all part of what carried me through the storm that was waiting just around the corner.

That night, I went to bed around 10pm, only to wake at 1am to light contractions. I was the “good girl,” following the midwife’s advice and tracking my contractions in silence, not waking my husband until I couldn’t bear it anymore. By 5am, they were stronger, more regular. My husband called the midwife while I climbed into the bathtub, already needing warmth and water to cope.

By the time she arrived, I was 6 cm dilated. She told us it wouldn't be long.

But it was.

Seven more hours passed. Seven hours of crying rivers of tears, screaming louder than I ever knew I could, squeezing my husband’s hands until I was sure I would break them.

I moved from the tub, to the bed, to the Pilates ball, to standing, kneeling, walking, lying… It was a homebirth, which gave me the freedom to move, to try, to hold onto some sliver of control. But still - there was a moment when the pain became too much.

I completely lost it.

The pain was inexplicable, like my body was disintegrating. I was in such a state of overwhelm that I remember thinking - I’d rather be dead than go through another second of this.

No one had told me this could happen. That something so natural, so ancient and powerful, could also feel so devastating.

And that’s the thing.
Childbirth is natural. But it can also be traumatic. Both can be true.

There were no complications. No real medical emergencies, apart from tears and lose of blood. My baby was healthy. I was healthy. But it doesn’t mean I wasn’t deeply impacted. I never labeled my experience as traumatic at the time. I told myself this was just how it is. That I had to be strong. That everyone goes through it.

But now, after having my second baby - after a very different birth - I can see the difference. I can feel the weight of what I went through the first time. The way I felt overwhelmed, lost, panicked, desperate. The way the pain left an imprint on my nervous system.

Too often, childbirth trauma is overlooked if both mother and baby are “okay.” But the emotional and mental toll is real - and it can linger.

Trauma in birth doesn’t always come from major medical interventions. It can stem from:
– not being listened to
– feeling powerless or forced into decisions
– unconsented procedures
– being denied pain relief
– not being allowed to move or choose how you birth, etc.

These are the things we don’t talk about enough. But we should.

Because we, as women, don’t take nearly enough time to honour what we’ve been through. The grit, the strength, the sheer power it takes to bring a human into this world deserves reverence. Not silence. Not dismissal.

If you’ve been through a birth that shook you - please know, you are not weak. You are not overreacting. You are not alone.

And if you’re about to give birth, please don’t let this story scare you. This isn’t about fear - it’s about truth. About honouring every version of birth. About creating space for every story, because they all matter.

Birth is personal. Powerful. And sometimes, painful in ways we’re only just beginning to understand. But one thing is certain - you are allowed to tell your story. And you are allowed to feel proud of yourself.

Your birth experience matters. 💙