During my first delivery, I had my family gathered in the room, thinking it would be a joyous occasion filled with love and support. I couldn’t have been more mistaken.
The Pitocin kicked in, and when my first contraction hit, it was unbearable. My mother, perhaps feeling my agony, began reading a Martha Stewart article loudly, likely to distract herself from my suffering. “Hang in there, you have a long way to go,” she seemed to suggest. Not exactly what I needed to hear, Mom. I quickly realized I wanted to be alone.
Initially, I had envisioned a serene birthing experience — soft lighting, calming music, and a beautiful baby entering the world peacefully. Naturally, I thought it would be a moment worth documenting for future reflection. But that fantasy quickly evaporated.
Once I asked my family to leave, things took a turn for the worse. I was in so much discomfort that my bra felt like a torture device. I managed to discard it, leaving it dangling from the IV lines. My dreams of a serene birth were shattered. The videos I had seen during my prenatal classes showed women looking graceful and composed. How did they pull that off? I certainly did not resemble a goddess in that moment; I was far from serene.
The brand-new video camera we packed for the occasion? It remained untouched in the bag. If anyone had dared to reach for it, I might have lost it. This was not a moment meant for recording — no candlelit ambiance, no family circle around me, and certainly no effortless gliding of my baby into the world.
As labor progressed, I became a sweaty, cursing mess. The primal sounds coming from me echoed through the hospital halls. Even when the caring staff brought my husband a meal on an actual silver platter, I found myself snapping at him for taking a break from supporting me. At that moment, I didn’t want him there either. “Just get out! No, wait, stay, but don’t look at that food!”
Afterward, I grappled with why my birthing experience felt so far from the magical moment I had envisioned. I did not look like a delicate flower; instead, I felt like a primal beast. The thought of my husband showing off the birth video during a casual dinner with friends was horrifying.
When it was time to push, the nurse offered me a mirror to see my baby crowning since we had decided against filming. I couldn’t even think straight. All I could manage was, “No, I don’t want to see that. Get this baby out of me now!” The only sight I craved was my newborn resting on my chest, healthy and content. That was the moment I wanted captured — not the labor itself.
While many choose to film their births, and I respect that, I found nothing beautiful in my experience. Labor was not kind to me, and I have no desire to relive that or share it with others. When my subsequent children arrived, the video camera stayed at home. We’ve compensated for the lack of that footage with countless videos of our kids — moments where I am not in the background yelling and struggling.
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In summary, my experience taught me that the reality of childbirth often diverges from our expectations. It’s okay to embrace the chaos and prioritize what truly matters: welcoming a healthy baby into the world without the pressure of documenting every moment.