Mavis, Mother of two

Pregnancy.

It’s such a simple word for a journey that’s anything but simple. For me, it was nine months (and almost 5 extra days) of carrying a little life I hadn’t yet met but already loved fiercely. My body became a vessel of change: the aches, the excitement, the endless visits to the bathroom in the middle of the night. There was anticipation too, growing with every calendar tick. By 40 weeks and a few days, after one failed membrane sweep, my doctor gently scheduled an induction. But my little one had other plans.

The day before the planned induction, I went into labour.

It started slowly at first, like whispers in my body telling me something monumental was coming. By the time I got to the hospital, contractions had gathered strength and purpose. I received a timely epidural anaesthesia, and it was like the storm quieted for a little while. I remember lying there, wrapped in sterile sheets, yet oddly comforted, even chatting and laughing with friends who had gathered around. Their presence made the room feel less clinical, more like a sacred space where life would soon break forth.

But then came the pushing.

Oh, the pushing.

It was unlike anything I had imagined. I’d heard stories, watched videos, but nothing truly prepares you for that moment when your body is caught between incredible power and unbearable exhaustion. I thought I couldn’t do it. Honestly? I wanted to give up. Every part of me screamed for it to end, for someone to take over and finish this task I suddenly felt too small to carry.

But then I did it.
Somewhere deep inside, I found a hidden reserve of strength and I gave one final push.

And then silence.

Just one second. Maybe two.
But it stretched into eternity. My baby didn’t cry immediately, and in that moment, the whole world held its breath with me. I stared at the ceiling, at the midwife’s face, at nothing and everything all at once. Then came the sound! The tiny, raspy cry that shattered the silence and stitched my heart back together in the same instant.

I remember crying.

That day didn’t just give me a baby. It gave me a new version of myself. A version who knows the weight of waiting, the depth of love, and the rawness of survival.

Now, as a mother of two, I look back on that first birth with awe. It was terrifying. It was beautiful. It was mine.