Four days later, I came home with a baby. My son was born at just over 35 weeks.

I never expected that I’d be having a premature baby. I’d planned my pregnancy and educated myself accordingly, reading the baby books and taking the requisite childbirth class at the hospital where I planned to deliver. Rarely did I come across any information about the “what ifs” of premature delivery.

Related: Why my twin’s premature birth still haunts me

Quite the opposite, most books stressed that first-time moms typically go past their due dates. And so, with a dash of naivety, I entered my third trimester assuming the same would hold true for me. Instead, my delivery taught me the first and potentially most crucial lesson of parenting: expect the unexpected.

What I wish I’d known about having a premature baby

1. It can happen to anyone

I was a healthy 32-year-old when I delivered my son. I had no genetic history of preterm delivery—my mother birthed me four days after her due date. I exercised, had normal blood pressure and ate as well as my morning sickness would allow. There was no reason for me to suspect I’d have a premature delivery.

During my childbirth class at the hospital, I asked the nurse who taught our group at what point I should pack my hospital bag. “I’d start packing at 36 weeks,” she told me. It never entered my mind that this would be too late. After I had my son, I shared my experience with pregnant friends giving them a gentle warning that birth can happen anytime, not to be married to a due date and that even healthy pregnancies don’t always go as planned.

I wanted my friends to listen to their bodies instead of ignoring unusual symptoms like I did when my water broke. One thing I needed to process afterward was that my preterm delivery was not my fault. I did everything I could to carry a healthy pregnancy. Opening ourselves to motherhood also opens us to the possibility that things can and will sometimes go wrong.

Related: What month will my baby be born? Here’s how to calculate your due date

2. It’s a shocking experience

“You’re not leaving here without a baby,” the nurse in triage told me after confirming that I was leaking amniotic fluid. This seemed unreal to me. Less than an hour earlier, I was at work. My baby shower gifts sat piled in my living room. I didn’t have a hospital bag packed and never bought diapers.

“The baby’s coming today,” I told my husband when he arrived, tears sliding down my cheeks. Though I said these words, I still felt in denial. I’d refused to believe my water was leaking all week long. Even driving to the hospital, I assumed I’d be checked and sent home. I wasn’t ready for the baby.

Shock is a natural reaction to premature delivery, especially as a first-time mom focused on a due date. I remember arriving home with my son and seeing my work boots where I’d left them next to the front door. It seemed unreal that my life could change so dramatically in a few short days. I leaned on my village. My sisters stocked our fridge, washed the baby clothes and organized the nursery. My cousin sent me shipments of preemie diapers.

I gave myself grace during the early postpartum weeks to adjust to my new, time-warped reality and cope with the shock. My baby may have arrived too soon, but that didn’t mean I had to process this change alone.

Related: What no one tells you about having preemie babies

3. It’s not easier giving birth full term

My son was 6 pounds, 11 ounces when he was born. Both my husband and I come from families with big babies. If I had carried him full term, my baby would have easily been larger than 9 pounds. “Good thing he came early, at that size!” numerous people told me upon hearing his weight. “I’m sure that was a lot easier.”

Is it easier to birth a smaller baby? Usually. But that does not mean that giving birth prematurely is the better option. Preterm birth comes with a whole host of worries and stressors that most full-term parents don’t have to grapple with. Aside from the shock of the experience, there is worry about the immediate and long-term health of the baby and the implications for future pregnancies. Moms who want to breastfeed preterm babies are encouraged to “triple feed.” That is nurse, pump, feed the pumped colostrum or milk, clean the pump parts and repeat every two to three hours. It’s stressful and grueling.

Smaller babies might be easier to get through the birth canal, but there’s more at stake if they lose weight in those early days. Premature babies also have a harder time processing bilirubin, so they’re at a higher risk for jaundice. Even if a preterm baby is big, like my son, there’s the worry that his lungs may not be fully developed. Pregnancy and birth can come with many challenges—including birthing a large baby—but giving birth to a preterm infant is often one of the most daunting scenarios a new mom may face.

4. Medical professionals are prepared

Preterm birth is shocking and it is stressful. But take a deep breath—the medical community prepares for these scenarios. Although we have a ways to go to improve maternal mortality rates in the US (particularly for indigenous women and women of color), in the grand scheme of history, this is not a terrible time and place to give birth. Medical interventions exist for a reason and they help with these scenarios.

There’s Pitocin to induce labor after a preterm premature rupture of membranes (PPROM). There’s Terbutaline to stop or delay labor. There are steroids to facilitate a baby’s lung development. There are incubators, feeding tubes and amazing NICU doctors and nurses ready to care for a premature infant. These people are there to help you and your baby. A NICU nurse stationed herself in my hospital room during delivery, ready to whisk my son away if need be. It’s always important to advocate for yourself and your baby, but rest easy knowing there are tried and true protocols for these scenarios.  

Related: Bringing baby home from the NICU? A NICU nurse shares what you need to know

5. It will be OK

I was lucky that my baby was deemed a late preterm infant, the best possible scenario. Everyone’s story is different, and there are hard truths and sad or complicated stories that come with prematurity. But in the vast majority of cases, it will be OK.

Having an early baby was a scary way to start my journey into motherhood, but I (we, actually) made it through. Just a few months into my son’s first year, I stopped considering his milestones from the vantage of his “adjusted age.” He was on target with his peers and continued to progress. Now, my preemie baby is a large and rather rambunctious toddler. The trauma of his birth day is a thing of the past. It’s all OK. There’s a bright future for both of us together. 

I wish I could go back to the moment I cried in that hospital bed and told my husband, “The baby is coming today.” I wish I could show that version of me the blonde, curly-haired toddler in the train pajamas. I wish she could see the sweet, clever boy my baby has become and understand that though premature birth is a part of his story—a part of our birth stories—it’s not all of it, and it doesn’t define his life. If I could, I would tell that mama to take a deep breath. This is only the beginning. 

“As a doula, I work closely with my clients throughout pregnancy to provide information on healthy pregnancy practices, nutrition, birth choices, breastfeeding and postpartum care,” explains Carson Meyer, birth doula and founder of C & The Moon. “I get to know each client’s unique individual needs and preferences to best assist them through their journey.” 

Doulas help build the bridge that helps support a family’s transition into parenthood—but doula services can be expensive, and may not be covered by insurance. It’s not an option for every family, which is why it’s especially important to be your own advocate in pregnancy, labor and birth stories.

Related: My husband won’t be my birth coach—and we’re both okay with that

Making doula services more accessible

Meyer is also an advisor for Little Honey Money, a cash fund baby registry that enables new families to register for wellness or pregnancy support gifts, like a doula, prenatal massages or breastfeeding support, spreading out the cost of giving birth and these helpful services among family and friends.

According to Lori Bregman, doula, co-founder of Seedlife and advisor to Little Honey Money, having a doula or understanding how to advocate for yourself like one is essential, particularly given the reality of doctors appointments. 

“These days doctors appointments are limited to 10 to 20 minutes,” explains Bregman. “In those 10 minutes, it’s hard to establish a real connection and have all your questions and concerns answered.” 

While platforms like Little Honey Money and Poppy Seed Health (which offers on-demand support from a doula, midwife or nurse) are making doula services more accessible, it’s still powerful to understand how and when to advocate for your rights. 

Set yourself up for success

Even without a doula, it’s possible for both you and your birthing team to create an honest, positive foundation for your birthing experience. 

As you start meeting with your medical experts, one way to begin advocating for yourself and encouraging openness is to share any past trauma that may resurface during your pregnancy or labor. 

“Share your family history if you feel it is relevant to helping them understand a bit more about you,” encourages TaNefer L Camara, MS-HCA, IBCLC Mom, Lactation Consultant, Doula, and Maternal Health Strategist. “Share your learning style and how best to communicate or how you prefer to receive information.” 

Other ways to help set the stage for success is to put your birthing plan and desires on paper, so that anyone who needs to reference it has it available to them. 

Your birthing team, plus friends and family can also take it upon themselves to help you advocate for yourself by being privy to your birthing plan or reading books like The Birth Partner by Penny Simkin.

Know what red flags to look for in your medical care

“Your care provider for pregnancy, labor and beyond should partner with you,” explains Tesiah Coleman, MSN, WHNP-BC, AGPCNP-BC, CLC, the director of virtual care at Tia, and a doula and health equity advocate. “Steer clear of providers who dominate the conversation or decision-making. If they can’t listen to you during your prenatal visits, then they certainly won’t while you’re in labor.” 

Coleman adds: “If a provider insists on a treatment or plan you don’t agree with, ask for a record. You can say things like ‘can you please put in my chart that I do not agree with this plan and am asking for an alternative.’ Make sure you ask to see the clinical note after it’s written. Typically they would rather work with you than risk writing that disclaimer and having something go wrong.” 

Other red flags to look out for include doctors dissuading you from seeking additional support (like doula support), mention of a big baby, encouraging inducing labor for non-medical reasons, disregarding your fears or concerns around birth, or anything that makes you feel personally uncomfortable. 

Practice self-advocacy

Hardly anyone is an expert at advocating for themselves, particularly in tense or medical situations. Everyone has to practice and reaffirm their right to do so. 

“It can be intimidating to advocate for yourself in medical situations because your medical provider is supposed to be the expert,” explains Josephine Atluri, mindfulness coach & author of 5 Minute Mindfulness for Pregnancy.  “However, it’s your body and you know best how you are feeling. It is in your right to ask all the questions that are weighing on your mind and to advocate for things that you want to pursue in your medical treatment.”

Atluri encourages starting by asking yourself why you’re having a hard time asking for help or advocating for yourself, as shining a light on what may be stopping you can help you figure out where to go next. 

Leaning on different breathing and meditation techniques either before or during the moments you’ll need to advocate for yourself can also be helpful. 

Clarissa Edmondson, CBE, doula, pregnancy & infant loss advocate and advocate at Poppy Seed Health, shares a template that can be useful when practicing advocating for yourself in real time: 

• I am _____ weeks pregnant, and I would like information on better preparation for my upcoming birth. My expectant due date is ___________. 
• I would love information on the birth process, I am planning a ________ (hospital/home birth). I would prefer a ___________ (medicated or unmedicated birth). 
• Lastly, I would like information on navigating postpartum. 

Related: 4 simple things you can do to have a better hospital birth

You deserve a safe and healthy pregnancy and birth

Knowing your medical rights and reminding yourself that you are always in your right to refuse or delay care or get a second opinion also helps build your confidence ahead of having to speak up for yourself in a medical situation. 

Most importantly, it’s key to remember why you’re advocating for yourself. 

“You are advocating for a healthy pregnancy, birth and postpartum,” explains Edmondson. “[You’re] protecting yourself and your baby, and making sure that you have all your options readily available to you.” 

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Davis’ then 8-year-old daughter, Brooke, helped deliver her baby sister, Summer, earlier this year. The moment was a long time coming for mother and daughter. “It meant everything to me to have her in the delivery room,” Davis tells Motherly.

The incredible experience was a healing one for Davis and Brooke, who have both suffered the heartbreak of pregnancy loss. Back when Davis was a mom of one, she told then 3-year-old Brooke she was going to be a big sister. Not long after Brooke’s big sister announcement photoshoot was uploaded to Facebook, Davis suffered a miscarriage.

“Brooke was absolutely heartbroken. She cried so hard,” Davis wrote in a blog post for Love What Matters. “Although they’re young they can mourn a loss as well,” Davis tells Motherly.

Davis and her husband continued to try to conceive, but didn’t tell Brooke when the next test came back positive. That pregnancy, too, ended in miscarriage. So did another.

When a pregnancy test came up positive in 2015, Davis was happy, but wary, and didn’t tell Brooke until she was further along in the pregnancy. On January 3, 2016, Brooke was in the delivery room (although not part of the action) as her sister, Ellie, came into the world.

It was a dream come true for Davis, who has two sisters herself and wanted that kind of bond for her daughter, and for Brooke. She was finally the big sister she’d wanted so badly to be.

In 2017, Davis carried another pregnancy to term, and Brooke asked if she could be in the delivery room again while her mama labored. At her next appointment with her midwife, Davis asked about upping the ante on Brooke’s presence in the delivery room. When the midwife said Brooke could cut the umbilical cord this time the 8-year-old was thrilled.

When the big day came, Brooke was right there with the midwife, the nurses and her dad. She touched her sister’s head as she was crowning and her hands (along with dads) were there to catch Summer.

Brooke cried as hard as she had when her big sister dreams were dashed, but this time, every tear was one of hope and happiness. “I couldn’t imagine not having her there with us,” Davis says.

Brooke now wants to be a midwife when she grows up, and Davis has some advice for other mamas whose older children want to be there for the birth:

“Let them have full reign over how involved they want to be. Brooke could have stood by my head or outside of the room, but instead she chose to deliver,” she tells Motherly.

With Brooke now a big sister twice over, Davis says her family is finally complete and the mom of three is enjoying watching her trio of sister grow together. “Brooke loves being a big sister. She loves the relationship, having a constant friend there, someone to teach. She’s such a sweet kid,” Davis explains.

During his fourth pregnancy, one transgender father decided to hire a photographer to capture the home birth of his son, Tig. Yuval Topper-Erez intended the keep the photos private, as a beautiful memento of the moment Tig joined their family, but recently decided to share that moment with the world.

“When I saw the photos I suddenly got the sense that they need to be out there, as they represent so well two causes very close to my heart: normalization of home birth and normalization of trans and non-binary people giving birth,”

wrote Topper-Erez, in a touching Facebook post.

Tig was born in May 2019 in northern England after a “very rapid and intense labor.” Two midwives, including Topper-Erez’s partner, and the birth photographer were on hand for the experience.

“I hope, among other things, that this album will inspire birth workers and future seahorse dads(AKA gestational fathers,)” wrote Topper-Erez. “I know how meaningful images like this could have been for me before my first pregnancy and how meaningful it is for me to see images of fellow birthing trans and non-binary people to this day.”

Tig has two older siblings who slept through his home birth. “Our two older children were invited to join us for the birth but chose not to wake up and came to meet the new baby shortly after the birth was over,” wrote Topper-Erez. “I love when inspirational people share their births with the world and hoped that I could be that person for others,” Topper-Erez told Romper. “Specifically, other trans people who have often been told that they could not be parents. I also was hoping my photos would start conversations among birth workers about the variety of birthing people and bodies.”

Every family’s birth story is different. Whether it’s at home or in a hospital, medicated or not, a simple or a complicated delivery—it’s worth remembering that there’s no one “right” way for a child to enter the world.

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I just wish that knowledge had ultimately dictated how my son’s birth went.

Knowing the inflated use of cesarean births occurring in the United States, I had heightened anxiety about potentially having a C-section—especially given the alarmingly disparate rate at which Black women have poor birth outcomes, including death. According to the Population Reference Bureau, Black women in America are over three times more likely to die due to pregnancy- or childbirth-related complications than their white peers, and for Black women over the age of 30, that risk is closer to five times higher.

I discussed these concerns with my OB/GYN and had the same conversation with the other two providers that could potentially deliver my baby. I attended all of my prenatal visits, was in great health, had no pre-existing conditions, and was defying all the stereotypes that would suggest that I was at increased risk for having a poor birth experience. I also had access to resources to ensure my pregnancy was by-the-book, all so that I could enjoy the unmedicated home birth that I was planning for—one where the threat of a C-section or unwanted medical intervention didn’t loom large over me and my baby.

And don’t worry, I had a backup plan: If all else failed, I would strut into the hospital with my doula at my side, ready to deliver after laboring at home where I sang and did African dance with each contraction.

At 37 weeks, after a great day at work, I went to my regularly scheduled visit with the perinatologist. Based on what I now know to be an ultrasound error, the hypervigilant medical provider insisted I go to the hospital to have an induction for suspected intrauterine growth restriction. I advocated for all of the follow-up tests, and three additional ultrasounds later, the results did not seem like enough evidence to justify inducing my labor. In fact, further testing showed an active, moving baby and normal umbilical flow.

It wasn’t until I spoke with the obstetric provider at the hospital about how the decision to induce labor did not have the evidence-based results to support it that I realized there was a serious imbalance of power in the room. He began to really lay on the scare tactics… a nice thick serving. In that moment, I remembered a T-shirt I saw once with “Danger: Educated Black woman” on it. That was me, and something I always embraced and celebrated as a reflection of myself and my accomplishments. But in that moment, I wondered if this provider saw me as a threat. 

I knew that at 37 weeks, which is technically known as ‘early term,’ not quite ‘full term,’ this labor induction would likely result in a C-section, and just as I was requesting to sign out against medical advice with the request for close follow up in my perinatologist’s office until my delivery due date, I was told that if I left against medical advice, no one in their maternity unit would take care of me—and if I came back, I would have to go to the emergency room to deliver. I cannot say for sure which of my attributes led to this uncompassionate attitude, but my experience left me feeling too Black, too empowered, and too educated for this doctor’s liking. Worst of all, I felt completely unheard. 

The moment I realized that my perinatologist’s concerns had been unfounded, and I had thus been robbed of the birth experience I wanted—one where I would have felt safe and empowered instead of fearful and worried—I immediately felt frustrated, angry, and defeated.

So I stayed. Fear is an overused drug in maternal care, and at that moment, the overdose of fear hit me hard. What if I walked out, experienced pregnancy complications, and the unthinkable happened as a result? I wasn’t willing to take the risk. The Pitocin was started, contractions ensued, but my cervix made no efforts to join the party. All efforts resulted in a C-section and, ultimately, the birth of my son.

The obstetrician took one look at the umbilical cord and my son and proclaimed that “Everything looks great here!” The placenta came back normal too. The moment I realized that my perinatologist’s concerns had been unfounded, and I had thus been robbed of the birth experience I wanted—one where I would have felt safe and empowered instead of fearful and worried—I immediately felt frustrated, angry, and defeated. It didn’t help that many people around me couldn’t understand my frustration and would simply tell me to just be glad that he’s here and he’s healthy. (Pro tip for anyone visiting a new mother: don’t say things like that when they’re sharing their birth stories. It’s incredibly invalidating.)

What you can learn from my story

It is because of this experience that I would like to encourage all Black mothers-to-be to create their own birth plan, and really take the time to seek out providers and professionals who will empower you to advocate for yourself. Interview several OB/GYNs in your early pregnancy and find the provider who listens to you and is encouraging about self-advocacy.

A relationship of trust with your provider is vital, as is familiarizing yourself with their response to factors and concerns that are important to you. Enroll in a culturally-sensitive childbirth education class that focuses on explaining the signs and symptoms of medical conditions and the risk and benefits of using interventions during pregnancy. Utilize the services of a doula, one who supports your vision for childbirth, but can also help you plan ahead for unexpected scenarios.

While I am incredibly thankful that my son came into this world healthy, I can’t help but wonder what my birth experience could have been like had I not been spoken over, intimidated, and unheard. That’s why I share my birth story; other mothers should never have to experience what I did.

If I could go back, there is one thing I wish I knew before getting the epidural: your dose (and level of numbness) can be adjusted.

What does an epidural do?

As a quick refresher, an epidural “provides anesthesia that creates a band of numbness from your bellybutton to your upper legs,” according to the American Society of Anesthesiologists. An epidural allows you to feel pressure when it’s time to push without the pain. It’s inserted in your back using a tiny needle and a catheter, which is left in place to continue administering more medicine as needed.

After informing my OB-GYN pre-delivery that an epidural would be part of my birth plan with my first son, I arrived at the hospital in August 2017 for my induction at 39 weeks pregnant. About 12 hours later, I remember feeling a little confused. “When do I request an epidural?” I asked my mom. I was only dilated to 3 centimeters and had been feeling some contractions, but nothing the regular IV pain medications couldn’t handle. My mom answered, “If you’re asking that question, then you don’t need it yet.”

Fast-forward several hours later to my OB-GYN manually breaking my water—causing my contractions to suddenly intensify. My mom and my husband had both left the room to get lunch, but I didn’t need anyone’s advice this time: I knew I wanted the epidural, now! As a frustratingly calm labor and delivery nurse helped me sit still on the edge of the bed for the spinal injection, I gritted my teeth and prayed the anesthesia would kick in ASAP. The painful contractions I was experiencing combined with flared sciatica was miserable (and people not in pain, no matter how nice they were, were really starting to get on my nerves!). 

I was past the point of breathing exercises and needed some serious pain relief.

After the anesthesiologist inserted the epidural, I laid back down and waited. Minutes later, it slowly became easier to breathe again. It was like the agony of the last few hours (and months of back pain before that) was slowly fading away, leaving me almost lightheaded with relief.

I was laughing, planning for my first post-birth meal and finally relaxing. Until I realized the epidural had done more than just eliminate pain—it had eliminated all feeling in my lower body.

I was completely numb from the top of my stomach to the soles of my feet. I couldn’t feel anything at all from the waist down and couldn’t move my legs or feet as hard as I tried. It felt like I was paralyzed, and it scared me. 

My heart started racing so high it alerted the nurse, who called my doctor. 

I told her I felt like I was having a panic attack because the feeling of being trapped in bed—and in my own body—completely caught me off guard.

I didn’t know this at the time, but the dosage of your epidural can be adjusted through the catheter that is left in your back. 

The way it works is simple: a small amount of anesthetic is injected into the epidural space of the spine, which numbs the spinal nerves and blocks the pain signals. You will no longer feel pain, but a low dose will allow you to move your legs.

The anesthesiologist came back and lowered my dose to the point I could actually feel tingles in my legs and move them on my own again. When he lowered the dose, I was also able to feel my contractions again; luckily, nowhere near the level of pain they were before. The contractions just felt like slight pressure squeezing my abdomen, signaling when it was time to push.

Related: Some hospitals aren’t letting women push during birth when they need to—and that’s not OK

Having the feeling return to my legs was a complete game changer. 

After just 15 minutes of pushing, my son Logan was finally born! Two years later, when I was in the hospital to have my second son Liam, things went so much smoother. I knew to ask for the dose to be lowered so I could still feel my legs, and it was so empowering to have that control and peace of mind in the delivery room.

If you are considering getting an epidural before your delivery, I highly recommend it. And if the dose is too high, causing you to feel anxious or claustrophobic, ask your anesthesiologist to lower the dose to a more manageable level. You deserve to have as much control over your birth experience as safely possible.

A version of this story was published January 20, 2022. It has been updated.

The following series of photos are from this year’s winners. The contest, which is open to birth photographers globally, was initially founded by award-winning birth photographer Lacey Baratt as a way to legitimize the art of birth photography.

“Despite birth photographers worldwide losing a majority of their work and income in 2020 due to the globalpandemic, I am thrilled to be able to feature the talent of our members in our annual image competition,” said Liz Cook, director of the International Association of Professional Birth Photographers (IABPB).

“We are incredibly proud of the entrants of this year’s competition because in spite of all we endured inour community in recent months, this contest represents the resistance birth photographers have to overcomeunforeseen challenges. We are proud to present to you a breathtaking body of work that shares life’s mostpowerful moments from 2020.”

As the number one birth association worldwide, IABPB encompasses more than 1,100 members in 52 countries.

“Our association has grown by leaps and bounds and our members continually produce excellent, emotive,invaluable birth photographs for the families that hire them,” said Cook. “I want to thank each and every IAPBPmember who entered this year and, of course, the families who agreed to share their beautiful and sacred birthmoments with the world.”

Without further ado, here are the winning photos of 2021—and they’re stunning.

First Place: “Daddy’s Girls” by Ashley Marston

“The Origin Of Life” by Charlene Förster

“The Greatest Love In The World” by Anne Lucy Silva Barbosa

“Nourish” by Jami Edgar

“Reach Down. He’s Almost Here” by Dana Jacobs

“My Body, My Birth” by Hanna Hill

“Primal Shapes Of Birth” by Laura Brink

“Grace” by Danny Merz

“Nursing A Newborn” by Carey Lippert

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I am the 1-in-9 statistic. My brave warrior prince, Wilder, was born two months and two days before his due date on a frigid January night in 2014. Nine days earlier, at 30 weeks pregnant, I awoke at three a.m. and, to my horror, discovered I was hemorrhaging. I persuaded my husband to stay home with our two-year-old son, Dash, and took an Uber by myself to the hospital. Twelve hours and two sonograms later, I was placed on full bedrest.

I’m a NICU mama. This is my story.

Despite several miscarriages and complicated pregnancies, I was still completely unprepared and shocked when my OB told us I would have to deliver our son prematurely. I remember so vividly the look of concern on his face as he sat on the edge of my hospital bed and said my situation had taken a serious turn—I was losing too much blood and we needed to deliver.

“But I’m barely 31 weeks,” I cried, looking at my husband’s face as his eyes also welled up with tears. My doctor took my hand and said firmly, “This is what I can tell you for certain: We have an incredible NICU here. He will be in great hands. Also, a baby I delivered at 29 weeks is currently at Harvard.” I let out some combination of a laugh and wail, took a deep breath, and said, “OK. Let’s do it.”

Related: This is birth: A NICU birth story

There is nothing more anxiety-inducing than the sterile white walls of an operating room in the middle of the night. I had been in this exact room two years prior delivering Dash, but this time was very different. You could feel the collective nervousness in the room, even from the doctors, who were trying to stay as calm as possible. When the doctor whispered “Happy Birthday,” I knew our baby was out of my body but I wasn’t sure of his condition. I stared at my husband’s face, frantic for some sign he was OK and all I heard was a deafening silence.

“Is he OK?” I said to my husband, sheer panic in my voice. “I don’t know,“ he said grimly, and I could see his eyes were plagued with fear. A couple minutes later that felt like an eternity, I screamed “Will someone (expletive) tell me my baby is OK, please?” and a doctor shouted at me to stay calm. I heard a suction noise and the smallest, tiniest cry. I looked at my husband and we burst into tears. Our son was alive.

Thus began our harrowing journey of having a preemie. From the second Wilder was whisked away into the NICU and placed into an incubator for 49 days, we were in survival mode. The first time I held him I could not believe how small he was. He weighed four pounds and was 17 inches tall—around the size of a pineapple. He had tubes coming out of his mouth and nose and was hooked up to heart and oxygen monitors. He had an IV in. It was so much more terrifying than I could have imagined. I was hysterical, sure that I would lose him.

His NICU staff, a dream team of the most incredible nurses, were like earthly angels. They immediately calmed me down, dried my tears, made me laugh and reassured me that although he was sick, he was in very good hands. They did not make false promises that he would be OK, but they were confident that his breathing difficulties and appearance were consistent with that of a baby born at 31 weeks. In the NICU, every day a baby was in the womb was considered vital. On the spectrum of sick versus critically sick, 31 weeks in the womb was considered fortunate.

Related: Dear NICU mama—I’m the nurse who sees you, everyday

I learned so much. I learned about intubation, weak lungs, heart complications, feeding tubes and how to read an oxygen machine. Every day a new struggle presented itself and my husband and I had to pray that Wilder would survive. We would vacillate between being terrified and inconsolable and strong and confident that we would get through it. The first time we left him at the hospital to go home I was a wreck. I walked down the hall sobbing and saw my new NICU mommy friend whose baby occupied the incubator next to ours. She opened her arms, we cried together, and she told me to go home and eat lots of ice cream. So that’s what I did.

For the next two months, I had a routine in place and ran on adrenaline. I would wake up, spend time with Dash, and then go to the hospital to cuddle Wilder all day until late at night, only going home to sleep. I made NICU mommy friends in the pumping room, where we laughed, shared our fears and discussed our babies’ ‘accomplishments.’ It was a major day when one of our babies’ feeding or breathing tubes was removed. We were surviving together, working toward one common goal—our babies being healthy enough to come home.

Wilder’s day finally arrived. In mid-March, he felt fresh air for the first time on his little face. I had dreamed of that day and when it finally came, I was terrified. After surviving the NICU, would he survive in the world?

My baby is now 19-months-old. He is beautiful and strong, but it has not been easy. He has a weak immune system and is in physical, occupational and speech therapy. He is thriving, but being born premature means he will need extra help until he is at least three. My journey as a NICU mommy also didn’t end with him coming home. I have suffered anxiety and post-traumatic stress. I worry constantly about his health and well-being.

I blamed myself for not being able to carry him to full term, even though I logically knew it was not my fault. Fertility is mysterious and complex. Like the majority of mommies I met in the NICU, I had no prior health complications my entire life. Yet I was seemingly fragile when it came to pregnancy, and one of the unlucky ones that randomly had a placental abruption. There was nothing I could have done to change it or stop him from being born early, and I am filled with gratitude daily that he is alive.

September is NICU awareness month and that is why I’m sharing my story. I am the proud mommy of a small but fierce NICU survivor, and I am a mommy who survived the NICU experience. I am eternally grateful to the extraordinary team of doctors and nurses in the NICU at Lenox Hill. Walking out of the hospital with a baby is a gift. Walking out with a NICU baby is a true miracle.

A version of this post was published September 3, 2021. It has been updated.

A 911 call was dispatched into the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Office at 5:30 a.m. from a man in a 7-Eleven in the Tampa area. He said his wife was in active labor, and he was pretty sure they weren’t going to make it to the hospital in time for her to deliver the baby there.

So she delivered the baby at 7-Eleven. Because, like we said, babies come when they come—and we’re just along for the ride. Including this one, because we can watch the entire delivery on YouTube. And honestly, it’s pretty darn amazing.

HCSO DEPUTY DELIVERS BABY

After the father called 911, deputies arrived on the scene within minutes. Deputy Jordan Ream is the officer who safely delivered the couple’s healthy baby boy, and Mom and baby were immediately transferred to the hospital. According to a press release from the sheriff’s office, both of them are happy and healthy and doing great.

“Without hesitation, Deputy Ream jumped into action to assist this mother in labor,” said Sheriff Chad Chronister. “While a car is hardly a place anyone would want to give birth in, Deputy Ream repeatedly reassured the new mom that she was in good hands. Immediately, his training kicked in and he was able to deliver the healthy baby while keeping mom safe too. I wish Mom, Dad, and their new baby boy all the happiness. Congratulations!”

Congratulations indeed! If nothing else, that baby should qualify for free Slurpees for the rest of his life. Cheers!

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It is primal. It is powerful. It is everything. Vaginal or C-section, at home or in a hospital. Birth is birth—and it rocks our worlds. But while all birth is amazing, not all women feel amazing about their births.

Sometimes our birth experiences leave us hurting, scared and sad. Sometimes we feel cheated. Sometimes we just feel lost and confused.

So when I tell you my birth story, please hold your judgment. I know you mean well. I know you want to help me feel better, to find the silver lining so I can embrace and enjoy motherhood. I want that too—desperately, in fact. But it’s not that simple, especially as I’ve had a traumatic birth.

Trauma is defined as “a deeply distressing or disturbing experience.” A birth that leaves us feeling distressed or disturbed is a traumatic birth.

Related: How to overcome—and heal from—a traumatic birth

When we give birth, we do so from our core—not just the core of our bodies, but the core of ourselves. We are open and vulnerable during and after birth, and the energy that is around us is the energy that we absorb. It becomes a part of the inner voice that guides us in motherhood.

I need that voice to be one that supports me, fully.

So when I tell you about my difficult experience, please try not to say, “Well, the important thing is that you and the baby are healthy.”

I know that. Of course I know that. I sob over my baby’s bassinet hoping that my tears somehow convey to the universe how grateful I am that the baby is healthy. I smile and say how happy I am because I’m too ashamed, embarrassed or guilt-ridden to admit that my birth left me feeling hollow and sad.

I want nothing more than to move on from my birth experience, but I can’t.

Birth trauma is personal

Please remember that trauma is incredibly personal—what’s traumatic for one woman may not be for another. One woman may be traumatized by a birth that happens very quickly, while another woman would call that her dream birth. One woman may be traumatized by needing to have a C-section, while another would feel relieved by it.

A woman can have a perfect birth on paper but could have been deeply affected by a few careless words uttered to her in passing.

Related: To the woman deciding what to do after a traumatic birth

Please understand that I was deeply impacted by my birth. I think about it all the time. I wish more than I can convey that I didn’t feel this way about my birth, but I do.

Words that encourage me to gloss over my experience, or push aside my feelings simply aren’t helpful right now. You mean well, I know, but when you tell me to be grateful, it makes me feel guilty. And when you remind me that I am lucky, it makes me feel alone.

I am so honored to be my baby’s mother, and know how incredibly lucky I am that she is healthy. And if given the choice, I would go through one thousand times worse, one thousand times over, if it meant that I would get the same outcome. She wins, every time.

But that doesn’t negate the fact that I had a really hard birth. I am still a person, who experienced a trauma, and I am hurting.

I need you to honor my experience

I need you to listen. Really listen with an open mind, remembering that my trauma is different than your trauma. Please try not to judge my trauma, or me, while I tell you my story. Please just listen to me.

Please don’t tell me what I should have done differently. Maybe I had choices in how things went down, maybe I didn’t. Honestly, right now I don’t even know. I may want your advice in the future, but right now I’m just not ready.

I need you to just be with me. If you can’t find words to say, it’s probably because there aren’t any. Please don’t be afraid to just sit with me in silence. I know it feels awkward to you, but to me, it feels like home.

Encourage me to get help. Remind me that I am not alone, and support is out there. Help me find a therapist or support group that specializes in trauma and traumatic birth stories so I can work through my pain.

And just love my baby and me.

I know you do, which is why you’re trying to make this better in the first place. So thank you for that. Please know that your love means the world to me, even if I don’t always say it.

A version of this story was originally published on July 20, 2021. It has been updated.