I had a birth plan. Of course I did. I was organised, informed, and had attended the NHS funded antenatal Zoom classes like a good, responsible, first time mum-to-be. I logged in with a notebook, a pen, and the kind of optimism only someone who has never given birth can possess.
The classes were… fine. Useful in the same way that being told to “drink water” is useful. Lots of well meaning advice, lots of nodding, lots of “yes, that makes sense”. We were told to eat vegetables. At one point we genuinely went round the virtual room sharing our favourite one.
There was one young couple who spent a solid ten minutes explaining how they sang to the bump every night, followed by an actual live demonstration. We all watched politely, on mute, questioning our life choices and wondering how long it was socially acceptable to stare at your own reflection on Zoom.
My overall takeaway was simple. If you can’t make antenatal classes, don’t lose sleep over it. You are not missing secret birthing codes. You are not failing your unborn child. You will still know how to push.
My actual birth plan was much clearer. Water birth. Upright. Let gravity do the heavy lifting. No c section unless absolutely necessary. No forceps. No epidural. Gas and air and breathing my way through it. Calm, controlled, very in tune with my body. I also decided, in my first pregnancy, that I would be extremely prepared. I swam four times a week, worked on my core, stretched, visualised, and convinced myself I was building the body of a woman who would give birth like a serene earth goddess. Second pregnancy me would later laugh in the face of first pregnancy me.
Labour one. Darcey Jean.
It was a Saturday morning, around 9am. I remember clearly because Ryan had a go-karting day booked at Lakeside with his friends. To this day I do not understand the timing or the confidence behind that decision. My contractions had started gently, more of a “hmm, that’s interesting” than a “we are having a baby today”.
I downloaded an app called Freya which timed contractions and whispered calming affirmations at you. By lunchtime they were around twenty minutes apart, nowhere near the dramatic five minutes apart the hospital tells you to wait for, but I was not about to let my partner disappear off to race around a track while I might be going into labour. So I calmly informed him he was staying home.
We tried to keep things normal. We walked the dog, popped to the supermarket, and I ate a very wholesome lunch of cous cous, pasta salad and houmous, which would make an unexpected reappearance later that night. We went home, put our bags by the door, and decided to try and rest, fully expecting a long and drawn out night ahead.
It was not a long and drawn out night. It was not even 10pm when I went to the toilet and my waters broke. Suddenly everything shifted. I rang the hospital, asked them to run the water for my birthing pool, grabbed the bags, and we drove to Southend maternity unit with that strange mix of excitement, fear, and quiet anxiety that they might examine me and send us straight back home.
The ward was eerily quiet. No bustling midwives, no chorus of newborn cries, no busy energy. Just a calm, almost empty corridor. We connected our Bluetooth speaker, put our playlist on, and I was examined. Four centimetres. Not six. Not active labour yet. No pool.
So I walked the corridors, bounced on the exercise ball, and chatted with Ryan about whether we thought the baby was a girl or a boy. And then the atmosphere changed.
They started listening to the heartbeat. More staff came in. More listening. More murmuring. The word “irregular” floated around. Suddenly I was labelled high risk. The pool plug was pulled, quite literally, and I was moved onto a bed, on my back, legs up, wires and monitors everywhere. Ryan was told to hold a heart rate monitor on my belly, which kept slipping.
I said I did not want to be on my back. I said my plan was upright, active, and in control. The response was calm but firm. Birth plans rarely go the way you imagine.
Around 2am the conversation turned to epidurals and the possibility of forceps. A giant pair of metal tongs clamped to your baby’s head and used to pull them out. A hard no from me. I was exhausted and in pain, but I was not incapable. Ryan began questioning everything. I needed him to. It is incredibly difficult to advocate for yourself when you are in labour, when authority is speaking quickly and confidently, and you are vulnerable and desperate to do the right thing.
Somewhere in the blur of conversations, he negotiated an oxytocin drip instead of forceps. Then, within earshot, the words “possible c section” were discussed, and that is when the panic truly set in.
Three junior doctors arrived in the early morning, around 7am, and each of them, in turn, examined me. It was invasive, painful, and overwhelming. I asked Ryan to stop it. I remember him flapping his arms and saying something along the lines of “that’s enough now”.
Another compromise was reached just before midday: I was given thirty minutes to try and deliver naturally before intervention. I kept asking if my baby was in danger. No one said yes. No one quite said no either. The room felt tense, and I felt like I was being assessed, measured, timed.
Then I pushed. I focused on my breathing, on the surges, on working with my body rather than against it. I was told she was moving forward and then slipping back slightly between contractions, but I kept going. And eventually, just before 1pm, she was born. My Darcey Jean. Just over eight pounds. Perfect.
I cried like I have never cried before. Relief, exhaustion, love, and a huge release of all the pressure I had felt. The pressure from the clock, from the conversations, from the repeated suggestion that my body might not be able to do what it was designed to do.
But it had. And she was here.
Labour two. Freya Margaret.
The second pregnancy was overshadowed by the first birth. I carried a lot of anxiety. I worried that I would once again feel rushed, overruled, and unheard. I explored hypnobirthing, breathing techniques, and positive visualisation, but mentally I struggled with the thought of returning to hospital and putting myself back into that environment.
I even considered a home birth, but practically it did not work for where we were living at the time. The final weeks were heavy with nerves rather than excitement.
When contractions started, it was a Thursday morning. Ryan was working from home and I was in the early days of starting Aneby. They were mild and manageable, so he stayed logged on, partly because we assumed it would take time, and partly because if we could reach the afternoon it meant an extra day of paternity leave.
I popped to the supermarket to grab Darcey some snacks. By the time I returned, everything had ramped up quickly. We dropped her at Ryan’s mum’s as planned. It was around 11am and my contractions were already at five minutes apart, though I didn’t say that out loud. I calmly suggested we head to the hospital.
My waters broke as I put the bag in the boot.
The drive should have taken fifteen minutes. Traffic and temporary lights turned it into thirty. It was a warm September day and we had the windows down. With each contraction I could feel the baby moving lower, the pressure building, the unmistakable urge to push. One enormous surge hit and I let out a proper, primal scream. Ryan quickly put the windows up and asked if we needed an ambulance. I said no, but I could feel her head starting to descend.
He made it through a very questionable amber light and pulled into the hospital car park just as another wave hit. I could barely stand. We got into the elevator, I clung to the handrail and breathed through the contractions, entirely focused on what my body was doing. We reached the maternity ward, I took one step inside, and the next contraction roared through me.
Ryan shouted for help. One of the reception staff, who had been a maternity nurse in a previous life, immediately took control. And within moments, the floor was covered in waters, blood, baby poo, and my second daughter.
Freya Margaret was born right there on the reception floor, surrounded by stunned expectant parents and hastily erected privacy screens. No pool. No bed. No doctors. Just my body doing exactly what it needed to do. It still makes me smile that the birth went down as "In Transit".
It was chaotic and completely unplanned, but it was also calm in its own wild way. I moved when I needed to, pushed when my body told me to, and no one rushed me or told me I was running out of time. I held her, took a breath, and felt an overwhelming surge of pride and joy.
What I learned.
I am not sharing this to frighten anyone or to suggest one type of birth is better than another. Intervention saves lives, and the NHS maternity staff are extraordinary. But what my two experiences taught me is the importance of feeling heard and in control.
Labour is not a performance. It is not a race. It is not something that happens to you while you lie still and wait for instructions. As long as your baby is safe, you are allowed to ask questions, to take your time, to say no, to change your mind, and to trust what your body is telling you.
Every midwife and doctor is different. Some are endlessly patient and reassuring. Some are tired, stretched, nearing the end of long shifts. You feel those differences when you are in labour, and they shape the experience more than you might expect.
My first birth was beautiful because it ended with my baby in my arms, but it was heavy with pressure and doubt. My second was messy, dramatic, and completely mine.
I would never recommend a reception floor delivery. But I would recommend trusting yourself, preparing, listening, and remembering that you are not passive in this process. You are the one bringing life into the world.
And sometimes, when I think back to that moment with Freya in my arms, in the middle of a hospital corridor, surrounded by strangers and yet completely present, I do find myself wondering…
Could I do it all again.
