The Audacious Noor | Episode 15
An experience that changed how I understood childbirth, listened to women and eventually supported them as a doula.
There are some experiences in life that teach you something in the moment.
And then there are experiences that take years for you to fully understand.
For me, one of those experiences happened in March 2015.
It was the first time I had attended another woman’s birth as a support person.
At the time, I didn’t realise just how much that experience would teach me. I didn’t walk away thinking that my entire understanding of childbirth had changed. In fact, it wasn’t until years later, after attending more births and supporting more women, that I began to recognise just how significant that first experience had been.
Because sometimes, we don’t know what we don’t know.
And sometimes, the things we think we understand are the very things we still have the most to learn about.
This is one of those stories.
I Thought I Understood Birth
By March 2015, I had already experienced childbirth myself.
I knew what it felt like to labour. I knew the physical demands, the emotional challenges and the moments when you question whether you can keep going.
I had experienced birth through my own body, my own mind and my own circumstances.
And naturally, those experiences shaped my understanding of childbirth.
Isn’t that what happens to all of us?
We go through something significant, and it becomes part of how we understand the world.
We experience motherhood, and suddenly we have opinions about parenting.
We experience pregnancy, and we begin sharing advice with other pregnant women.
We experience childbirth, and we start to believe we understand what another woman might be going through.
Not necessarily because we think we know everything.
But because our experiences are the reference points we have.
And that’s exactly where I was.
I knew what childbirth had felt like for me.
What I hadn’t yet understood was just how differently another woman could experience it.
March 2015: The Birth That Opened My Eyes
I remember attending that first birth as a support person.
I wasn’t walking into an entirely unfamiliar environment. I understood what labour was. I understood that contractions could be intense, that birth could be unpredictable and that women needed support.
But there was something I hadn’t fully appreciated.
The woman I was supporting wasn’t me.
Her body wasn’t my body.
Her emotional responses weren’t necessarily going to look like mine.
And the things that helped me through labour weren’t automatically going to be the things that helped her.
It sounds so obvious when I say it now.
Of course, every woman is different.
Of course, every birth is different.
We hear those words all the time.
But there is a difference between knowing something and truly understanding it.
And I don’t think I fully understood that difference until I began witnessing birth through someone else’s experience.
There were things that happened during that first birth that I didn’t recognise in the way I would recognise them today.
There were things she communicated that I don’t think I fully heard.
And there were moments when, looking back now, I know I could have supported her differently.
Not because she told me I had failed her.
She never expressed that she felt unsupported.
But because the person I am today has a completely different understanding of what it means to support a woman through childbirth.
And sometimes I think about that.
I think about how much I have learnt since then.
I think about the things I would notice today that I might have missed back then.
And I think about how easily we can approach another woman’s experience through the lens of our own without even realising we’re doing it.
That birth didn’t teach me that childbirth was difficult. I already knew that.
It taught me that childbirth could be experienced in ways I had never personally understood.
And that was a lesson I needed.
Two Women Can Experience the Same Thing Completely Differently
I want you to imagine something for a moment.
Two women are in labour.
Both are experiencing strong contractions.
Both are progressing through childbirth.
Both are facing the physical and emotional demands that labour can bring.
But their experiences couldn’t be more different.
One woman might find comfort in silence.
She wants the room quiet. She doesn’t want anyone talking through her contractions. She wants to close her eyes, focus on her breathing and be left alone to work through what her body is doing.
The other woman might feel completely overwhelmed by silence.
She needs someone speaking to her. She needs reassurance. She needs to hear that she’s doing well, that she’s safe and that someone is there with her.
One woman might love having her back massaged.
Another might find being touched unbearable.
One woman might feel empowered by movement.
Another might need to stay completely still to feel grounded.
One woman might be vocal throughout her labour.
Another might barely make a sound.
Now tell me.
Which woman is doing labour correctly?
Neither?
Both?
The answer is that there is no single correct way for a woman to experience labour.
And yet, we so often approach childbirth as though there is.
We have expectations about how women should cope.
How they should breathe.
How they should respond to pain.
How they should behave when things become overwhelming.
And sometimes, without even intending to, we measure another woman’s experience against what we believe labour should look like.
But childbirth isn’t a performance.
A woman doesn’t need to be quiet to be strong.
She doesn’t need to be loud to prove she’s struggling.
She doesn’t need to refuse pain relief to demonstrate courage.
And she doesn’t need to respond to contractions the same way another woman does.
She simply needs to be supported through the experience she is having.
Not the experience someone else thinks she should be having.
When Our Own Experiences Become Someone Else’s Expectations
Here’s where I want to turn this conversation towards you.
Because I think this is something many of us have done at some point.
Have you ever listened to another woman talk about her birth and immediately started thinking about your own?
Maybe she told you she struggled with the pain.
And you responded by explaining how you managed yours.
Maybe she shared that she needed an epidural.
And you told her that you didn’t have one.
Maybe she explained how frightened she felt.
And you responded by telling her that childbirth is natural and women have been doing it for thousands of years.
Or perhaps she described something that happened during her birth, and your first thought was:
Well, that happened to me too, and I was fine.
I want you to really think about that last sentence.
“That happened to me too, and I was fine.”
What does that actually mean?
Does it mean she should have been fine too?
Does it mean her experience wasn’t as difficult as she believed?
Does it mean she shouldn’t have felt frightened, overwhelmed or disappointed?
Of course not.
But sometimes that’s exactly how our words can make another woman feel.
And the difficult part is that we might not even realise we’re doing it.
We think we’re reassuring her.
We think we’re helping her see that what she experienced was normal.
We think sharing our own story will make her feel better.
But sometimes, in our attempt to relate, we stop listening.
We begin responding to our own experience rather than the one being shared with us.
And that’s something I believe we need to become more conscious of.
Because your experience can be valuable without becoming the standard against which another woman’s experience is measured.
You can share your story without dismissing hers.
You can have a completely different perspective without questioning how she felt.
And you can recognise that something was manageable for you while acknowledging that it was overwhelming for someone else.
Both experiences can exist.
Both experiences can be valid.
Neither woman needs to prove anything to the other.
Something I Wish More Women Understood About Birth
I think one of the biggest misunderstandings surrounding childbirth is the idea that because something is natural, it should somehow be experienced in a particular way.
We talk about the strength of women.
We talk about the incredible things our bodies are capable of.
We talk about physiological birth, hormones, movement, breathing and the body’s ability to give birth.
And these are conversations I genuinely love having.
As a doula, I believe deeply in helping women understand their bodies, recognise their capabilities and approach childbirth with knowledge and confidence.
But I also believe we need to be careful.
Because celebrating what women’s bodies can do should never become a reason to dismiss what an individual woman is experiencing.
Labour can be incredibly demanding.
Physically.
Mentally.
Emotionally.
And sometimes, the experience a woman is having doesn’t look anything like the one she imagined.
She might feel frightened when she expected to feel confident.
She might need reassurance when she thought she would want silence.
She might change her mind about something she previously felt strongly about.
And she might discover that what helped her during one birth doesn’t help her during another.
That doesn’t mean she wasn’t prepared.
It doesn’t mean she failed.
And it certainly doesn’t mean she isn’t strong.
It means she’s human.
And childbirth is an individual experience.
I think we need to make more room for that understanding.
Especially when we’re speaking to women who are preparing to give birth for the first time.
Because the last thing I want is for a woman to walk into her birth believing she needs to experience labour in a certain way to be considered capable.
Your strength isn’t determined by how closely your birth resembles someone else’s.
The Things I Didn’t Hear
When I reflect on that first birth in 2015, this is probably the part that stays with me the most.
The things I didn’t hear.
Not necessarily because I wasn’t listening.
But because I didn’t yet have the understanding I have today.
And I think there’s an important difference.
Sometimes, when we listen to another person, we hear their words through our own understanding of what those words mean.
We interpret their emotions through our own experiences.
We assume we understand what they need because we know what we would have needed in that situation.
But what if we’re wrong?
What if the woman in front of us is trying to communicate something that doesn’t fit with what we expect?
What if she’s telling us she’s uncomfortable, but we assume she just needs encouragement?
What if she’s overwhelmed, but we think she needs more information?
What if she doesn’t want to be touched, but we believe physical support will help?
These aren’t specific moments I’m claiming happened during that first birth.
They’re examples of the kinds of things I’ve learnt to pay closer attention to over the years.
Because sometimes, supporting a woman means recognising that the thing you believe will help might not be what she needs.
And being willing to change your approach.
I think that’s one of the most valuable lessons I’ve taken into my work as a doula.
Supporting a woman isn’t about giving her what I think she needs. It’s about listening closely enough to understand what she’s telling me she needs.
And sometimes, that requires us to put our own experiences aside.
Our own preferences.
Our own assumptions.
Even our own ideas about what makes a positive birth.
Because we’re not the ones giving birth.
She is.
And her experience deserves to be at the centre of the support she receives.
Why This Changed the Way I Support Women
Over the years, I’ve come to understand that being present at a birth and truly supporting a woman through birth are not always the same thing.
You can be physically present.
You can offer encouragement.
You can know different labour positions, comfort measures and breathing techniques.
You can have years of experience.
But if you’re not paying attention to the individual woman in front of you, you might miss what she actually needs.
And that is why I place so much importance on getting to know the women I support before they go into labour.
I want to understand who they are.
Not just what their birth preferences say.
I want to know what makes them feel safe.
What worries them.
How they respond when they’re overwhelmed.
Whether they prefer encouragement or quiet reassurance.
Whether they want someone to speak up for them or simply help them find the confidence to speak for themselves.
Because these things matter.
And they can look completely different from one woman to the next.
I don’t want to walk into a birth assuming I know how that woman is going to labour.
I don’t want to expect her to respond the same way another client responded.
And I certainly don’t want my own birth experiences to determine how I support hers.
Instead, I want to walk into that space with an understanding that this is her birth, her body and her experience.
My role is to support her through it.
To listen.
To adapt.
To recognise when something isn’t working.
And to be willing to approach things differently when she needs me to.
Because what makes someone a good support person isn’t simply the number of births they’ve attended.
It’s also their willingness to keep learning from the women they support.
And I genuinely believe that.
We Need to Change the Way We Talk About Other Women’s Births
There’s something else I want to address.
And this isn’t just for doulas or birth workers.
This is for every woman who has ever shared her birth story or listened to someone else’s.
We need to become more mindful of how we speak about childbirth.
Because our words carry weight.
Especially when we’re speaking to women who are pregnant, preparing for birth or trying to make sense of an experience they’ve already had.
Imagine a woman sharing that her labour was frightening.
And instead of hearing:
“Oh, that’s normal. Everyone gets scared.”
She hears:
“That sounds like it was really overwhelming for you.”
Imagine a woman sharing that she needed pain relief.
And instead of hearing:
“I managed without it.”
She hears:
“How did you feel about that decision?”
Imagine a woman sharing that she didn’t feel listened to during her birth.
And instead of immediately trying to explain why things may have happened the way they did, someone simply asks:
“Do you want to tell me more about what happened?”
Can you see the difference?
One response redirects the conversation.
The other makes room for the woman to be heard.
And sometimes, that’s all she needs.
Not advice.
Not comparisons.
Not someone telling her what they would have done.
Just someone willing to listen without making her experience about themselves.
I think we underestimate how powerful that can be.
Particularly when a woman is sharing something as personal as her birth story.
Because childbirth isn’t just something that happens to our bodies.
It’s an experience we can carry with us for years.
The way we felt.
The way we were treated.
The words people said.
The moments we felt supported.
And the moments we didn’t.
These things can stay with us long after our babies are born.
And we should never underestimate their importance.
You Don’t Have to Understand Her Experience to Respect It
I think this is the message I want you to take away from this entire story.
You don’t have to experience something the same way as another woman to respect how she experienced it.
You don’t need to know exactly what her contractions felt like.
You don’t need to understand why she felt frightened.
You don’t need to agree with every decision she made.
And you don’t need to compare her birth to yours.
You simply need to recognise that her experience belongs to her.
And your experience belongs to you.
There is room for both.
I often think about how different our conversations around birth could be if we approached them with more curiosity and less comparison.
Instead of asking ourselves why another woman didn’t cope the way we did, what if we asked what made her experience different?
Instead of assuming we know what she needed, what if we asked?
Instead of offering our opinions immediately, what if we listened first?
I think we’d learn so much more about each other.
And I think we’d create spaces where women felt more comfortable sharing their experiences without fear of being judged.
Because not every woman wants to be told how strong she was.
Sometimes she wants someone to acknowledge how hard it felt.
Not every woman wants to hear that everything turned out fine.
Sometimes she wants someone to recognise that the experience itself was difficult.
And not every woman wants advice about what she could have done differently.
Sometimes she simply wants her story to be heard.
Looking Back at March 2015
It’s been more than eleven years since I attended that first birth.
And when I look back now, I see that experience differently.
Not with regret about everything I didn’t know.
But with appreciation for everything it eventually taught me.
Because that first birth became part of the foundation of how I understand supporting women today.
It challenged me to recognise that my own experiences, no matter how significant they were to me, could never represent every woman’s experience of childbirth.
It taught me that listening is something we continue learning to do.
And it reminded me that there will always be something another woman can teach us about birth.
Even when we think we already understand it.
I still have things to learn.
I think we all do.
And I hope I never reach a point where I believe I’ve seen enough births to know exactly how the next woman will experience hers.
Because the moment we start believing we know everything is the moment we risk overlooking the individual standing in front of us.
Every woman brings her own story into the birth space.
Her own experiences.
Her own fears.
Her own strengths.
Her own expectations.
And her own way of navigating one of the most significant moments of her life.
She deserves to be met as an individual.
Not as a reflection of someone else’s experience.
Before You Share Your Next Birth Story…
I want to leave you with something to think about.
The next time a woman shares her birth experience with you, pay attention to how you respond.
Do you immediately begin thinking about your own birth?
Do you find yourself wanting to explain what worked for you?
Do you compare how she coped with how you coped?
Or do you give her the space to tell her story?
I’m not saying we should stop sharing our birth experiences.
Far from it.
I believe birth stories are incredibly valuable.
They connect us.
They educate us.
They help us understand the many different ways women experience childbirth.
But I also believe we need to remember that our stories are just that.
Our stories.
They’re not instructions for how another woman should give birth.
They’re not evidence that another woman’s experience should have looked like ours.
And they’re certainly not a reason to question how another woman felt.
They’re simply one experience among millions.
And every single woman has her own.
So, if there’s one thing I hope you take from my experience in March 2015, it’s this:
Just because you’ve experienced birth doesn’t mean you understand how another woman experiences it.
And that’s okay.
You don’t need to understand everything.
You don’t need to have experienced everything.
You just need to be willing to listen.
Because sometimes, the greatest thing we can offer another woman isn’t our knowledge, our advice or our experience.
It’s the opportunity to be heard without judgment.
And that, to me, is where genuine support begins.
A Final Thought From Me
That first birth taught me something I didn’t know I needed to learn.
And more than a decade later, it’s a lesson I still carry into the birth space with me.
Every woman is different.
Every birth is different.
And every woman’s experience deserves to be heard.
Not compared. Not dismissed. Not measured against our own.
Simply heard.
With love,
Casey
The Audacious Noor Podcast | Mamacub Wellness
