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"Little did we know that delivering placenta feels like delivering another baby."
"Pregnancy is one of my favorite chapters of life. I’ve only experienced it twice, but they were both great experiences!
"With my oldest, Jackson, pregnancy was completely new. We planned for him but honestly, I had no idea what to expect. Because I didn’t have my mother and had a background of anxiety and depression, I had a feeling my pregnancy and birth would take its toll on me and invested in a doula for positive maternal influence. The pregnancy was a breeze, despite the most insane heartburn.
"My second birth was also great, but it taught me something new — to surrender. During his pregnancy, I researched WOC (Women of Color) maternal rates and was appalled. I became a spokesperson of this rising epidemic and had the discussion with my husband about my desire for a water birth outside of a hospital. I decided to give birth at the only birth center in South Carolina that allows water birth within four hours of arriving with contractions.
"These phases of life — pregnancies and births — taught me something new each time, and that’s how I’ll most likely plan to continue looking forward to them. As a WOC, the concept of birthing in a traditional hospital is daunting and terrifying, but this also explains the recent increase in home births. We need to be there for ourselves and other mothers. Listen to each other, support, and remember that mothers are born too, not just babies."
"For me, giving birth was not about pain — it was about trust. Trusting my intuition, my body, my baby, and, lastly, trusting those in the room with me.
"Every day I looked down at my belly and said “I love you, I trust you, I need you, and I’m ready when you are.” On Saturday, September 15, my baby decided to follow my ideal plan — I gave birth and everyone was in attendance.
"I had an unmedicated hospital birth with a midwife because I wanted to trust my own body. Prior to going into labor, I had no clue what trusting my body looked like aside from not giving in and requesting medication. It turns out that trusting my body and intuition meant acknowledging how my thoughts and mental state impact my physical body. I trusted myself to know when to push, when to rest, and how to breathe deep enough to avoid screaming. Staying calm was critical. With the help of my support system, I swag-surfed through labor, danced in the shower, rocked back in forth on a creaky chair, and fittingly welcomed my daughter into the world to Alicia Keys’ “Brand New Me.”
"I’ve always struggled with being firm in my decision making, but giving birth under my own conditions certainly created a brand-new me. As I used the days, hours, and minutes before to set a tone for her environment, I needed my little Black girl to enter calmly and loved in a world where little Black girls are often unprotected. My journey, and hers, all started with trust."
"Birthing as a queer Black woman with a nonbinary wife in Arkansas can be really terrifying. Stigma for LGBTQ families exists globally. The mix of radical Libertarian 'values' and religious influence in the Midwest and Southern United States makes it especially toxic and dangerous for LGBTQ families. Moreover, we have very little in the way of public protections against discrimination.
"We were deeply grateful to our incredible nurse midwife, Samantha Corral. We chose a midwife because it was essential that I be trusted with my own body. Black women often come away from the medical birth industrial complex traumatized and harmed. This pregnancy was my last of four, and I was very protective of the experience I wanted to have. My midwife was so dope. She was culturally responsive and deeply kind. She not only provided us with excellent care, but she was also intentionally affirming of us and celebrated our queer family. Our baby was born 20 minutes after I arrived at the birth center with one push, and was greeted by their ecstatic siblings.
"In a world where Black maternal and infant mortality is the norm, I felt incredibly fortunate to be trusted and provided responsive and quality care. Black motherhood, queer Black motherhood, is inherently political. "
"It was May 24, her due date, and she still was not here. The child we had prayed, planned, and impatiently waited for was taking her sweet time. I did everything in my locus of control to help her enter this Earth, but she didn’t budge (and she still does things on her own time, lol). My consolation? My doctor reminding me she can’t stay in there forever.
"Every day after her due date, I thought, today is surely the day. I hit 41 weeks and still my sweet baby girl had not arrived. I had read enough articles, blogs, and heard all the stories about the horrors of being induced. As I tried to remain calm, I tried to remain focused on simply giving birth to a healthy baby.
"Another week had passed and still no baby. On June 1, I checked into the hospital and my induction process began. You name it, they tried it all on me. They swept my membranes, they tried Cervidil and at last, Pitocin. June 2 rolled around, 24 hours of pain, discomfort, constant praying, and hoping had passed and I had not progressed past 2 centimeters of dilation.
"I decided no way in hell did I carry this blessing for what was more than 10 months to risk losing her in the next two days because I didn’t want to be cut open. I took a deep breath, called a couple of relatives who are medical doctors, spoke to my parents, and prayed. Thirty minutes after mustering up the courage and trusting my doctor to cut through my skin, fat, fascia tissue, abdominal muscles, a couple layers of peritoneum and move my bladder and intestines to slice through my uterus, he removed my little girl from her amniotic sac. Her cry was the beginning of what remains my most 'prideful beginning' and is exactly what her name means: Ure, meaning pride in my Igbo language, and Genesis, meaning the beginning."
"I’ll never forget the midnight rain while we sped down winding roads to the hospital. My husband and I joked about our little bruja, pressing my insides, ready to greet the world on Friday the 13th.
"This baby would be my last. And the joy that filled the room when the monitor indicated a girl was mine too. So as my ankles swelled and my skin stretched over my rounding belly again, I reminded myself to be present — soaking in every transformative moment in the months leading up to her arrival.
"As we walked into the chaos of the overcrowded Labor and Delivery unit and the nurse informed me there were no beds available, I didn’t feel afraid like the first time I paced those hallways. My husband was a beacon of light, jumping into action to fill out paperwork, hold my hand, and get his girl a bed. He rubbed my back and snapped some pictures with a reassuring and emotional smile. Soon, my spacious delivery room was ready and the nurses wheeled me in to greet an answered prayer: a Black midwife who had just started her shift. She was in tune with me at every step, gently guiding me through the final pushes with warmth and wisdom that seemed sent from above.
"She slid into this world, loud and vibrant, into the capable brown hands of the midwife and straight onto my beating chest. My husband and I shared a defining moment in that hospital room. It was like finding our missing piece, abruptly, joyously. I learned later that Friday the 13th was once a day dedicated to the goddess; a symbol of female strength and power; a befitting arrival for our sweet, strong, healthy girl. We laid our hands on her little body and whispered our prayers and our dreams into her skin on this, the 'unluckiest' day of the year."
"When I think about what awaited me the day my son came into this world, nothing could’ve prepared me for the cold, sterile, white room — the bare layout, with just a bed and two broken chairs surrounded by unfamiliar sounds and faces as my water came gushing all over the floor. I looked up to see my husband staring back at me, concern etched across his face. Neither of us knew how to wrap our minds around the big, painful word looming in that room: 'prematurity.'
"Just an hour before, the nurse directed me to lay down, noting in her chart that I was 'difficult and combative.' She prescribed rest and a sleeping pill, and when I refused, she just left us alone in that room. I looked at my husband again, this time to say it out loud, 'I’m scared. I can’t do it.' In the back of my mind, I wondered if I would die in the empty room. But he whispered in my ear, 'Yes, you can. Be brave.'
"So I pushed, with my husband holding me — the soundtrack he made for us playing in the background. And then, as if the sky had cracked open and breathed life into that room, my son appeared. He screamed, loudly, and then stopped the second he was placed on my chest. But it was only for a blissful moment. Nurses whisked him away.
"When I finally saw my son again, his eyes were closed. He had goop on his face. And my husband had tears in his eyes. They had to put my son under. My whole heart sank and all I could do was let my husband hold me, hold us, together. Today my son is vibrant and beautiful — full of energy and life. And so deeply loved. But I’ll never forget that cold, sterile room and two broken chairs. They will always be a part of our story, on the day I became a mom."