In April 2023, two weeks before my due date, my little one decided she was ready to make her entrance. We had gone to my brothers for pizza after a busy day. I remember thinking I had simply overdone it moving into our newly completed bedroom in the days leading.
I couldn’t get comfortable, couldn’t really sit, and my body felt restless and unfamiliar. Nothing felt alarming — just different. By the following day, I was experiencing what I thought were Braxton Hicks. Gentle tightening’s that came and went.
...I know now they were the beginning of my contractions
Leading up to this, my husband and I had completed an antenatal birth programme together. We had learned about birth hormones, breathing techniques, managing pain, relaxation, and what to expect if things changed. We also covered labour massage, birth positions, early newborn care, and recovery in the fourth trimester. At the time, it felt like preparation. Looking back, it was grounding.
So I leaned into it. I listened to meditation recordings, I ran a warm bath, I stayed at home, relaxed, breathing through each wave rather than fighting it thinking what brilliant preparation this was.
And then my waters broke.
That moment sharpened everything. I called my husband — he was at his nan’s having a Guinness and came straight home. I rang the hospital, started timing contractions, and was advised to come in.
My hospital bag was packed… mostly. Snacks and drinks weren’t included, because I wasn’t expecting such an early arrival, so we stopped at the shop on the way. I remember it feeling like the longest wait of my life. Contractions rolling through me in the car. Me on the phone to my mum. My husband panic-buying what felt essential at the time — mostly orange Lucozade Sport and bourbon biscuits.
When we arrived at the hospital, I couldn’t sit. Sitting felt impossible. We left the bags in the car, assuming we’d grab them later.
Inside, I was shown to a room and told gently that first labours can take time — up to 24 hours from waters breaking — and that I might be sent home and asked to return the following evening. But something in me knew differently. I couldn’t compare it to anything — this was my first baby — but my body felt certain.I asked to be checked. Those couple of hours in that room were the hardest. My legs were shaking. I leaned against the wall because sitting wasn’t an option. My husband briefly nodded off and took one truly dreadful photo of me — sagging knickers, mid-contraction, weak legs. I hate the photo… and also treasure it. It captured how real it all was.
When I was examined, everything changed. I was taken to the birthing suite.
Looking back, I am so proud of myself for advocating for my body. Birth can be overwhelming, especially the first time, and it’s easy to doubt yourself. Trusting my instincts mattered.
I met my midwife — calm, experienced, grounding. She ran the bath. I had hoped for the most natural birth possible and imagined a water birth in a slightly idealised way. What I learned instead was that it’s a partnership. She sat beside me. We talked through sensations, pain, changes. She recognised shifts before I did. We worked together — my body leading, her supporting. I will always be grateful to her.
The water was incredible. It felt like instant relief. The shaking in my legs eased. Being in the water was such soothing pain relief. I worked with my breath, my body, and my baby using gas and air partway through, but mostly relied on the breathing techniques I had learned.
I spent around two hours in the bath. Time blurred. Then I felt a change — a deep, instinctive urge to push. When the midwife recognised I was ready, she talked me through it. When my baby’s head crowned, she asked if I wanted to touch it — softly, gently — so as not to startle the baby, because at that point she didn’t yet know she was leaving my body. It was surreal. Sacred.
Then came the moment we hadn’t even thought about.
“Dad — are you ready to catch the baby?”
We looked at each other, stunned. With my final push, our baby was born into the water, and my husband lifted her carefully — protecting her, welcoming her. We hadn’t found out the sex, so hearing him say “it’s a girl” was pure magic. A moment I will never forget.
“Birth doesn’t just bring a baby into the world — it brings a mother into herself.“
After the birth, I stayed in the water with her for a while. Breathing her in. The world felt quiet and golden.
I still needed to birth the placenta, which became a little complicated. After a wee and a review from the consultant, it happened naturally — just within the safe timeline before theatre was needed.
After some stitches, we spent the most precious, golden moments together as a family.
Feeling her crown, lifting her from the water, working with my body and my baby — it was the most powerful experience of my life.
I know how blessed I was to have such a positive, supported birth, especially with my first. I don’t have notes of dilations or timelines; everything moved quickly. What I carry instead is deep gratitude.
The days before her arrival, life felt busy but settled. We had spent much of my pregnancy mid-renovation, but by that point the big works were complete. Our home was ready for her arrival — safe, warm, waiting. When the news spread that I had gone into labour, some of our closest family and friends quietly stepped in to help with the final clean and sort. A kindness I will never forget. We were held in ways we didn’t even know we needed.
During the haze of night feeds, I submitted my birth story after seeing a call for real experiences for a book by Davina McCall. And then I forgot all about it, lost in the fog of new motherhood.
Over a year later — maybe even two — I received an email telling me my story had been chosen to feature in her book, Birthing. They sent me a copy.
To see my words there — something written in the quiet, raw hours of early motherhood — was incredibly special.
April 2023 changed me forever. That was the day I became a mum
