Eps 12. What My First Birth Taught Me About Feeling Safe, Supported and Heard

A first birth story, 18 years of hindsight, and the lessons I now carry into my work supporting women through pregnancy and birth.

There are some experiences you understand differently once enough time has passed.

My first birth is one of them.

At the time, I was simply a 19-year-old woman having her first baby.

I wasn’t a doula.

I didn’t know the terminology I use today when talking about physiological birth, informed consent, advocacy, nervous-system safety or birth environments.

I wasn’t analysing everything that happened and thinking about how it might influence my future career.

I was just having my baby.

But now that baby is 18.

And when I look back at that pregnancy and birth through the eyes of the woman I am today, I can see just how much that experience taught me.

Not because everything went perfectly.

It didn’t.

There were frightening moments during my pregnancy. My birth plan changed. Labour was intense. I tore. My baby’s cord was around his neck when he was being born.

But despite all of that, when I think about my first birth, I think:

I loved my birth.

And I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about why.

I believe a huge part of the answer is that I felt safe, supported and respected.

Those things mattered then.

And 18 years later, they’re still the things I remember.

Your First Birth Isn’t Just About Having a Baby

When you’re pregnant with your first baby, everyone focuses on the baby.

What are you having?

Have you picked a name?

When are you due?

Have you bought everything?

Is the nursery ready?

But something else is happening at the same time.

A mother is being born too.

I was only 19 when I fell pregnant with my first son.

My life before him had been heading in a very different direction, and pregnancy became the beginning of a huge shift for me.

I didn’t know exactly what motherhood would look like.

I definitely didn’t know that 18 years later I’d have five children, work as a doula and spend so much of my life talking to women about pregnancy, birth and motherhood.

But I did know myself.

And that became important.

Even at 19, I knew I wanted to understand what was happening to my body.

I knew I wanted to have a natural, medication-free birth if circumstances allowed.

I knew I didn’t want to feel disconnected from the experience.

And I knew I wanted to feel safe.

I didn’t have fancy language for any of it.

I just knew what felt right for me.

Sometimes we underestimate how valuable that is.

Birth education is incredibly important, but preparing for birth isn’t only about collecting information.

It’s also about knowing yourself.

What helps you feel calm?

What makes you shut down?

Do you need information before making decisions?

Do you like quiet?

Do you need reassurance?

Do you want people talking to you, or do you want everyone to please stop talking?

What makes you feel exposed?

What makes you feel protected?

Those questions can tell you a lot about the kind of birth support you may need.

Feeling Safe Looked Different for Me

One of the things I remember most about that pregnancy was how free I felt.

I didn’t have a phone.

There were no constant notifications.

No endless scrolling.

No group chats.

No pregnancy algorithm showing me 700 things that could apparently go wrong before I’d even eaten breakfast.

I was simply living my life and growing my baby.

At the time, I wasn’t deliberately creating some perfectly regulated pregnancy environment.

I just knew I felt better without all the noise.

Today, I can recognise something in that.

I had created a sense of safety for myself.

And this is something I talk about a lot with women now.

Feeling safe during pregnancy and birth isn’t necessarily about making everything silent, dimming the lights and playing relaxing music.

Those things might help you.

Or they might annoy you.

Safety is individual.

One woman might feel safest in a hospital surrounded by medical professionals.

Another might feel safest at home.

One might want her entire family around her.

Another might want three people in the room and everybody else kept far away.

There isn’t one correct formula.

The question is:

What allows you to feel safe enough to soften, trust and work with your body?

The 20-Week Ultrasound That Changed Something in Me

One of the most difficult moments of my pregnancy came around 20 weeks.

An ultrasound raised a concern about possible markers associated with Down syndrome.

It wasn’t a diagnosis.

But at 19 years old, pregnant with my first baby and without the knowledge I have today, hearing that there was a concern was incredibly confronting.

My maternity care was through the Ryde Hospital Midwifery Program, which was a low-risk service, so I needed to attend another hospital for further assessment.

Suddenly, the pregnancy that had felt relatively uncomplicated entered a much more medical environment.

There were further ultrasounds.

There were conversations.

There were meetings.

And there was uncertainty.

Eventually, the additional assessment did not confirm the original concern.

My son was not born with Down syndrome.

But the experience stayed with me.

Not because I believe medical professionals shouldn’t investigate something they are concerned about.

Of course they should.

What stayed with me was the experience of being the woman receiving that information.

There is an enormous difference between hearing:

“We’ve noticed something that we’d like to investigate further.”

and walking away believing:

“Something is definitely wrong with my baby.”

That experience became one of my earliest lessons in the importance of communication within maternity care.

Women need information.

But they also need context.

What has actually been found?

What does it potentially mean?

What don’t we know yet?

What are the next steps?

What options are available?

How urgently does a decision need to be made?

And perhaps one of the most important questions:

Can you explain that to me again?

You don’t need to understand everything the first time it’s said to you.

You are allowed to ask.

A Good Birth Plan Needs Room to Change

I originally wanted a water birth.

In my head, that was how I was going to have my baby.

Then labour started.

I got into the bath.

And I hated it.

Absolutely hated it.

The water touching my body felt awful and I wanted to get straight back out.

So much for that plan.

But this is actually one of my favourite lessons from my first birth.

Changing your mind is not failing your birth plan.

A birth plan should help communicate your preferences.

It shouldn’t become something you feel trapped by.

You may spend months imagining yourself labouring in water and then hate it.

You may think you’ll want massage and then threaten anyone who tries to touch your back.

You might imagine music playing and then decide that if you hear one more sound you’re going to lose your mind.

Labouring you gets a vote too.

Birth preparation gives you tools and options.

You don’t have to use every tool just because you planned to.

Labour Doesn’t Always Need an Audience

When labour began, I stayed home.

My mum and sisters were around me.

There wasn’t panic.

There wasn’t this immediate rush to get to hospital because I’d felt a contraction.

I moved.

I walked.

My sisters massaged my back.

I changed positions.

And labour progressed.

Looking back, I appreciate how normal everyone allowed it to feel.

There was no sense that my body had suddenly become an emergency.

Eventually my contractions became much stronger, particularly through my back, stomach and hips.

I reached the point where I knew I wanted to go to hospital.

By then, walking to the car was a whole event.

Walk.

Stop.

Contraction.

Wait.

Walk again.

Then came the car ride.

If you’ve never travelled over Sydney roads during active labour, just know that every tiny bump suddenly feels personally offensive.

But eventually we arrived.

And most of the work had already happened.

Sometimes Your Body Is Very Clear About What It Needs

Once I arrived at hospital, the midwife wanted to assess me.

I got onto the bed.

My body immediately said no.

I needed to get up.

As I was getting up, my waters broke.

Things progressed quickly from there.

What I remember clearly is wanting movement.

I didn’t want to lie down.

I wanted to find my own position.

My midwife brought me padding for the floor and a beanbag, and I eventually ended up on all fours leaning over it.

That was where my body wanted to be.

Not in the water I’d planned to use.

Not lying on a bed.

On the floor, leaning over a beanbag.

And that’s where I birthed my baby.

Around three or four pushes.

Approximately 45 minutes after arriving at hospital.

He was here.

The Small Things Aren’t Always Small

There is another part of that birth I appreciate more now than I probably did at the time.

I wanted my body covered.

Even in active labour, modesty mattered to me.

There were very few people in the room, but I still felt more comfortable covered.

My midwife didn’t dismiss that.

She didn’t tell me it didn’t matter because she’d “seen it all before.”

She simply helped me.

I was given a sheet that I could wrap around myself while still moving and birthing in the position I needed.

It sounds like such a small detail.

But was it?

If being covered helped me feel safer and more comfortable, then respecting that supported my birth environment.

This is something I want women to understand.

You are allowed to care about things that someone else considers insignificant.

Maybe you don’t want students in the room.

Maybe you want people to knock before entering.

Maybe you want your hijab nearby.

Maybe you want minimal conversation.

Maybe you don’t want certain family members contacted until after baby arrives.

Maybe you want your partner beside your head rather than watching the birth.

Maybe you need procedures explained before someone touches you.

These things matter because you matter within your birth.

A Positive Birth Isn’t Necessarily a Perfect Birth

My first birth wasn’t without complications or unexpected moments.

I experienced the ring of fire.

I tried to slow my pushing but still tore.

At one point, my midwife told me to stop pushing because the cord was around my baby’s neck.

She managed what needed to happen, I was able to continue, and my baby was born.

We also hadn’t found out whether we were having a boy or a girl.

When he arrived, my midwife didn’t immediately announce his sex.

She covered his lower body and allowed me to look for myself.

I was the first one to discover:

A boy.

My son.

That moment has stayed with me for 18 years.

And I think it demonstrates something important about positive birth experiences.

A positive birth isn’t necessarily one where nothing unexpected happens.

It isn’t a birth where you perfectly execute everything on your birth plan.

It isn’t measured by whether you had medication, didn’t have medication, birthed vaginally, had a caesarean, used water or threw your carefully planned water birth out the window.

For me, a huge part of a positive birth was feeling like I was still part of what was happening to me.

I wasn’t simply being carried along by the experience.

What I Would Tell a First-Time Mum Now

Eighteen years and four more births later, I could give that 19-year-old version of myself a very long lecture.

Starting with:

Please don’t drink the castor oil.

Yes, I tried castor oil towards the end of pregnancy because it was something I’d heard about within my family.

No, I did not properly understand what it did.

And yes, I learned that lesson while spending a considerable amount of time in the bathroom.

Knowing what I know now, castor oil isn’t something I recommend to my doula clients. Any method intended to encourage labour should be discussed with an appropriate maternity care professional so you understand the potential benefits and risks.

But beyond questionable old wives’ tales, there are things I think 19-year-old me actually got right.

She listened to herself.

She chose maternity care where she felt supported.