When Birth Doesn't Go as Planned

April is Cesarean Awareness Month—a time to shed light on the one in three births in the United States that end in a cesarean. For some, it’s a planned and peaceful experience. For others, it’s a sudden shift in a story they thought they were writing differently.

Five months ago, I gave birth to my third baby.

I actually wrote this story months ago, in those first tender, foggy, sleep-deprived days of postpartum. But I never shared it. At the time, my heart was still too raw. I was emotional, hurt, sore, defeated... and so, so tired.

The tiredness, well, it lingers, as it tends to do with a newborn and two other littles. But time has allowed healing in other places. Quiet, unspoken healing in places I didn’t even realize were wounded.

I dedicate my life to helping women embrace their pregnancy and birth journey. I advocate fiercely for childbirth education, for informed choices, for autonomy. That’s why this entry is especially difficult for me to write. Because I’m going to talk about decisions I made that I don’t typically recommend to my clients. I'm going to share the vulnerable parts, the real parts. The ones I buried deep under the surface, waiting for the courage to bring them up for air.

So here it is—my birth story.

There I was, sitting on the couch on a Monday morning, belly stretched and heavy with life at 40 weeks and 4 days. My body had never carried a baby this long before, my first two had both arrived by 39 weeks. I was physically uncomfortable, sure. But more than that, I was mentally and emotionally unraveling.

My husband, who works his tail off every single day to provide for our family, gets laid off for two weeks every year. It just so happened that this year’s layoff was scheduled to begin that coming Saturday. And when that happens, we lose our health insurance for those two weeks.

Cue the panic.

I was staring down the reality of either birthing our baby within the next few days, or risking steep, overwhelming medical bills that we simply couldn’t afford. I called my wonderful doctor, explained everything to her, and asked what my options were. She gently offered an induction for that Wednesday.

I said yes.

I knew what was coming, and yet... I also knew what was at stake. I tried everything to get labor going before Wednesday, every old wives’ tale you can imagine. (Minus castor oil, because, well, no thank you.)

But nothing worked.

We arrived Wednesday morning at 7 a.m., my heart already heavy with the weight of the decision. I didn’t want this. I wanted so badly for my body to go into labor on its own.

So much of that day is a blur. Trauma does that, it fogs over the painful parts like your brain is trying to protect you from re-feeling them.

I remember the Pitocin. I remember the contractions stacking one on top of the other, no time to breathe, no space to rest. I begged for it to be turned off. My uterus needed a break. That’s when we realized, my body was actually starting to labor on its own. That flicker of hope came back. Maybe, just maybe, this would still go the way I’d hoped.

I labored all night long. Most of it unmedicated. The darkness of the room, the rhythm of my breath, the way my husband never left my side, I remember those parts. Not the time, not the details, just the intensity and the love.

I also remember the nurses. The ones who poured everything they had into helping me achieve the birth I so deeply wanted. They held my hand, encouraged every push, repositioned me a hundred times, and whispered words of strength when mine was fading. And my incredible doctor, she never left my side. Not once. She stayed with me through the night, through every contraction, every decision, every tear. Her presence was unwavering. Even though my birth plan didn’t come to life the way I had hoped, I will forever be grateful for the way she fought with me, for me.

Eventually, the pain became too much. I asked for relief.

But the anesthesiologist on call was an hour away.

I looked at my husband, tears in my eyes, and whispered, “I messed up.” (This very well, was probably not a whisper.)

Part of my birth plan, something we had both looked forward to, was for him to catch the baby. He had been suited up for hours already, just waiting. Hopeful. I had been pushing for what felt like forever. Screaming. Begging. Why wasn’t he coming? He has to be stuck. Something’s wrong.

When the intrathecal finally arrived, I got a two-hour break. A precious rest. We were hopeful it might be enough to help my body progress. I just needed that rest, just a little bit of peace.

But as those two hours passed, fear crept back in. I couldn’t do the pain again. I asked for the epidural.

Later, I felt the urge to push again. It was strong. I gave everything I had left. They could see his head, but nothing was working. I tried every position I knew, every technique I teach. Still, he wouldn’t come.

It was nearing noon on Thursday. Over 24 hours had passed. My body was drained. My baby’s heart rate was dropping.

The doctor came in and gently said, “You don’t have a choice anymore.”

I don’t remember who else was in the room. Just the tears. The flood of defeat. My dreams unraveling right in front of me. My husband later told me he’d never seen people move so fast.

Everything changed.

He didn’t get to catch our baby. He didn’t get to be the first to announce the gender. I didn’t get to pull him to my chest. It all happened in a blur.

I was pumped with so many medications that I passed out. I vaguely remember my husband whispering, “It’s a boy,” before I slipped away again.

When I woke up in my hospital room, he wasn’t beside me.

They said he didn’t look good. He needed a CPAP. He had struggled to breathe.

And then the guilt set in.

If I had said yes to the cesarean sooner, would he have been okay? Would he have avoided that?

I never saw him with his CPAP. But my birth photographer, who has been there for all my babies, captured a photo. Weeks later, I finally saw it. And when I did, every emotion I had shoved down came rushing back.

The ache. The grief. The guilt.

Recovery was brutal. I couldn’t get in and out of bed for weeks on my own. The physical pain was hard, but the emotional pain, of what was lost, was harder.

My husband was incredible. He held it all together while I fell apart. But I know it hurt him deeply, too. Maybe even more. I was able to black out parts of it. He remembers every moment. And that breaks my heart.

And yet, even through all of it, we received our sweet baby boy.

Porter James, born November 7th, 12:37 p.m., 7 pounds, 7 ounces.

I look back on that day, and I still mourn the birth I wanted. The one where everything went according to plan. I am grateful we are both here, and that I am strong enough to share this now. But the presence of gratitude doesn’t erase the pain. The sadness, the disappointment, they still live here too.

I’ve come to believe that maybe God gave me this experience so I could better support the women I serve. So I could sit beside them in their grief, their fear, and their own versions of “this isn’t what I wanted.” So I could rewrite my approach with more empathy and less assumption.

Since Porter’s birth, I’ve spent countless hours rewriting my childbirth education class and workbook. I’ve added sections to support moms with cesarean births, especially those with unplanned or emergency cesareans. I want them to feel seen. I want them to be prepared not just for the best-case scenario, but for all the possibilities that might unfold.

This birth changed me. It softened me. It humbled me. It taught me that sometimes, strength looks like surrender. Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is let go.

To any mama reading this who has walked a similar path, your story matters. Your feelings are valid. You did not fail. You are not alone.

And you are still, always, a powerful mother.

With Gratitude

To my husband—thank you for being my constant, my strength, and my calm through the storm. I know this was hard on you in ways I’ll never fully understand, and I’m forever grateful for the way you showed up for me.

To the nurses—thank you for fighting with me. For believing in me. For holding space for my plan while also gently guiding me through a different path.

To my doctor—thank you for never leaving my side, for honoring my wishes even when things changed, and for showing up with compassion, patience, and unwavering support. I will never forget it.