The Birth That Taught Me to Trust

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

I was 41 weeks and 5 days pregnant, getting the kids off to school and doing normal Monday morning things. At that point, I had tried just about everything to encourage labor—dates, pumping, pineapple juice, red raspberry leaf tea, primrose oil, membrane sweeps. If someone suggested it, I had probably tried it.

The one thing I hadn't tried yet was castor oil. My midwife had sent me a smoothie recipe the night before. I had originally planned to see her for another membrane sweep that morning, but I figured I would try one more thing first—not because I expected it to work.

Honestly, I wasn't expecting to have a baby that day at all.

I was still hopeful labor would start on its own, but I had also started preparing myself for the possibility of an induction. That morning, I wasn't focused on outcomes. I was simply thinking about God's timing and trying to stay open to whatever came next.

Around 10 a.m., after the kids got on the bus, I made the smoothie. Peanut butter chocolate. It sounded good in theory and less good as it warmed up. I drank about half over the next hour and listened to my body as the nausea started creeping in.

By early afternoon, it had definitely run its course.

But by 2 p.m., the waves began.

They came every six minutes—strong, steady, and surprisingly consistent. I gave my birth team a heads up but stayed relaxed. I swayed on my birth ball, watched funny shows, and assumed we were settling in for a long night. I figured we'd meet our little man sometime the next morning.

I had no idea how wrong I was.

By 5 p.m., things picked up. By 6:30, I was fully focused. My son's father had arrived, and while I thought maybe back scratches would help, I quickly realized I didn't want to be touched.

What I wanted was space.

Throughout my pregnancy, I had often pictured myself opening like a lotus flower. During each wave, I repeated the same words over and over:

I will get big. I will open.

I moved between squats, swaying, rocking over a chair, and lowering myself to the floor. I couldn't find comfort, but I stayed steady and I stayed moving.

At 6:48 p.m., I texted my midwife to head my way. Her ETA was around 8 p.m. There was plenty of time.

Or so I thought.

I asked for privacy and went to sit on the toilet. Things were changing quickly. Sitting there brought relief. I leaned into the wall through each contraction, humming low and slow. Then the shower started calling my name.

I stepped into the hot water and stood there letting it run over me. That's when it hit me—not fear or panic, just a quiet knowing.

This baby was coming.

There was no more planning, no more wondering, and no more trying to make anything happen. My body already knew what to do. For the first time that day, I completely let go and trusted it.

Time blurred after that.

I remember calling for my sister. I remember lowering myself into the tub. I remember hearing a pop and realizing my water had broken beneath the water.

Then came the urge to push.

But first came something else entirely... not quite a baby, hah!

After draining the tub and letting the water swirl away, I suddenly felt the ring of fire. My sister rushed in and looked at me.

"You don't look so good. You look white."

I looked at her and said calmly,

"He's coming."

"No, he isn't," she replied. "Your birth team isn't here."

For a brief moment, I understood what she meant. My midwife wasn't there. My photographer wasn't there. Nobody was technically ready.

But I was.

I reached down and felt my son's head. I looked at my sister and told her to call my midwife and get his father.

I wasn't frantic or afraid. I trusted what my body was telling me.

His father walked into the bathroom while telling my midwife, "She's about to have this baby." The next contraction brought our son's head fully into the world.

"I think I need to call her back," he said.

As my midwife answered, she stayed with me over the phone while the next wave came. I didn't force. I didn't rush. I didn't make anything happen.

My body did exactly what it was designed to do.

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

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

When my midwife walked through the door, 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 looking back now, I think this birth was about much more than where my son was born.

For a long time, I struggled to trust myself. I questioned my decisions, my instincts, and whether that quiet inner voice was really something I could rely on. My midwife never gave me that trust—she simply helped me see it was already there.

Somewhere between choosing a path that felt right, surrendering control, and catching my own son, I stopped looking outside myself for permission. I started listening to the voice that had been there all along.

The night before the fifteenth anniversary of my mother's passing, I welcomed my son into the world. I don't need to over-explain what that means. I just know heaven felt close, and I know I left that birth a different woman than the one who entered it.

Not because I had a home birth or because everything went well, but because I learned that trust isn't something you find. Sometimes it's something you remember.

For years, I thought confidence was something other people had that I didn't. I thought trusting myself was something I would eventually learn. Instead, I discovered it had been there all along.

Once I experienced that for myself, I couldn't stop thinking about how many women are searching for the same thing—not a perfect birth, not a specific outcome, and not someone to make decisions for them. Just the confidence to hear their own voice and trust it.

That's why I do this work now.

Because every woman deserves to feel supported enough to trust herself.

Jess