The Birth That Taught Me to Trust

The morning of September 30, 2024 felt like any other.

I was 41 weeks and 5 days pregnant - getting the kids off to school and prepping postpartum snacks like it was just another Monday.

Somewhere in those quiet morning hours, something in me shifted.

I had reached a place of surrender.

If home birth was in God’s plan, it would unfold.
If it wasn’t, that would be okay too.

I wasn’t asking for a specific outcome anymore. I was asking for alignment — for God’s will, for His timing, for my body to do exactly what it was designed to do.

I had tried just about everything to encourage labor — dates, pumping, pineapple juice, membrane sweeps, red raspberry leaf tea, primrose oil, even enemas.

The one thing I had not tried yet was castor oil. I had originally planned to go to my midwife that morning for another membrane sweep, but I thought I might try the castor oil smoothie recipe she sent me the night before.

So around 10 am, after getting the kids on the bus, I made the smoothie. Peanut butter chocolate. It sounded good in theory. Less good as it warmed up. I drank about half over the course of an hour and a half, listening to my body as nausea started creeping in. I didn’t want to force anything. I just wanted to encourage what was already ready.

By early afternoon, it had definitely “run its course.” And by 2:00 pm, the waves hit.

The waves came strong and steady — about every six minutes. Not quite a minute long yet, but consistent. It almost felt like I had been induced. I gave my team a heads up but stayed calm, talking, bouncing on my birthing ball, and watching funny shows. This felt like it could be a long night. I assumed we’d meet our little man sometime in the early morning hours.

I had no idea how wrong I was.

By 5pm, the intensity picked up. I needed to focus more deeply through each wave. By 6:30, I was fully honing in. My son’s father had arrived, and while I thought maybe back scratches would help, I quickly realized I did not want to be touched.

What I wanted was space.

This entire pregnancy, I had envisioned myself opening like a lotus flower. I had read a birth story where the mantra “I will get big and open” stuck with me. So that’s what I repeated over and over in my mind.

I will get big.
I will open.

I pictured a lotus blossoming — wide, soft, strong.

I moved between deep squats at the end of the bed, rocking over a chair, swaying my hips, lowering myself to the floor. I couldn’t find comfort, but I stayed steady, and I stayed moving.

At 6:48 pm, I texted my midwife to head my way.

Her ETA was 8:00 pm. My photographer was on the way too.

There was time.

Or so I thought.

After getting off the phone, I asked for privacy and went to labor on the toilet. I knew things were shifting, and I also wasn’t sure if I needed to flush anything else out before pushing. Sitting there brought relief. I slowly pressed into the wall during each wave, letting out low hums to relax my jaw and my neck. Water was pressing into my thoughts by this time… the shower was calling me.

I stripped down and stepped in. The hot water felt amazing, but I still couldn’t get comfortable. Later, I realized I was in transition. Baby was making his way down.

Time became a blur.

Suddenly, I was calling for my sister.

I remember lowering myself in the shower, the beads of hot water hitting my face as the water started to rise around me. I heard a pop and realized my water broke under the water. Then the urge to push rushed over me.

However, my face blushed bright pink when I realized that what came first was not a baby!!

So, I drained the tub — and at that same moment, I felt the ring of fire. I felt stretched in a way only birth can stretch you. My sister burst in and said, “You don’t look so good… you look white.”

I looked at her and said calmly, “He is coming.”

She responded, “No, he isn’t. Your birth team isn’t here.”

Silence hung in that moment.

For a brief second, I understood what she meant. My midwife wasn’t there. My doula wasn’t there. No one was technically ready.

But I was.

In that moment, I reached down and felt his head.

I looked up at her, breathed slowly — steady on purpose — and told her to calm down and call the midwife and get the father of the baby.

I was not frantic.
I was not afraid.

I had already surrendered long before that wave.

While the father was on the phone saying, “She is about to have this baby,” my midwife responded, “Call me back if anything changes.”

He walked into the bathroom just as the next contraction brought our baby’s head fully into the world.

“I think I need to call her back,” he said.

And as my midwife answered again, she stayed with me over the line while the next wave came.

I did not force.
I did not push.
I did not rush what my body already knew how to do.

My body surrendered.

And with the next contraction, the rest of him slipped into my hands.

He was born at 7:27 p.m., in the quiet of our home, before my birth team arrived.

When my midwife arrived, she found me grinning ear to ear in the bathtub, skin to skin with my baby wrapped in a warm towel.

“I can’t believe I just did that,” I whispered.

But she could.

She explained later:

“I watched her choose parenthood even when it felt scary to do alone. I watched her transfer late in care because she knew a home birth was right for her. I watched her research and make her own decisions. I saw her strength every step of the way. So no — this didn’t surprise me.”

This birth was empowering.
It was beautiful.
And it was necessary.

Necessary for the woman I am today.
Necessary for the mother I am today.
Necessary for the faith I have today.

Transferring late to home birth was not easy. It wasn’t conventional. It wasn’t what everyone expected. But it was what I knew in my gut was right.

I was not alone — even when it looked like I might be. I was supported. I was prepared. I trusted my body. I trusted the design. I trusted that birth is not something we “do” — it is something we allow.

This birth is why I support women now.

Because I want every mother — in every birth setting, in every walk of life — to feel supported enough to trust herself. To follow her instinct. To make informed decisions. To know she can do this.

There was something else about that night…

My son was born the evening after the fifteenth anniversary of my mother’s passing.

I don’t need to over-explain it.

But heaven felt close that night, and it was a night that changed me.

It deepened my faith in God’s design.
It anchored my trust in my body.
It clarified my calling.

Because every woman deserves to feel steady enough to trust.
Supported enough to surrender.
Safe enough to align with what feels deeply right.

Not alone.

Never alone.

And sometimes the bravest thing you can do
is let yourself be carried.

With Love,

Jessica B.