Two Pregnancies, 10 Months Apart

First Pregnancy

I walked into my pregnancy believing I would have a normal vaginal delivery. Everything pointed in that direction—my reports were good, I stayed active, exercised, and there were no concerns throughout the pregnancy. Looking back, I also realize how much importance everyone around me placed on having a "normal" delivery. It almost felt like that was the only successful outcome.

But the universe had other plans.

Three weeks before my due date, I woke up early one morning to find that my water had broken. We rushed to the hospital, and I was admitted immediately. The problem was that I wasn't in labour. They induced labour, but the contractions never really started. Hours passed. I wasn't dilating.

What I remember most vividly isn't the medical procedures—it's the way I was made to feel. The repeated internal examinations, the nurse checking for dilation every few hours, the disappointed expression on her face each time she looked up. I don't know if she intended it that way, but as a first-time mother, every glance made me feel like my body was failing. As though I wasn't trying hard enough. As though I was somehow responsible for not progressing.

By the afternoon, the doctors decided that a Caesarean section was the safest option. At 3:39 p.m., my son was born.

I wish I could say that was the end of the emotional roller coaster, but it wasn't. Soon after, the paediatrician mentioned that my son had a defect because my water had broken early and his head had been compressed against the uterine wall, stretching his ears. Whether that explanation was medically complete or not, what I remember is the overwhelming guilt. As a new mother, vulnerable and exhausted, I absorbed every word as though I had somehow caused it.

Fifteen years later, I know so much more than I did then. I understand that premature rupture of membranes can happen without warning, that labour doesn't always follow the script we expect, and that a Caesarean birth is not a failure. Most importantly, I know that my body did not betray me. It responded to circumstances beyond my control.

Motherhood hasn't been an easy journey over these fifteen years, but if there's one thing I wish every healthcare professional remembered, it's this: the words they choose matter. A mother in labour doesn't just need clinical care; she needs compassion. She needs reassurance that her worth is not measured by how she gives birth, how quickly she dilates, or whether her body behaves according to a textbook.

Some births are meant to unfold differently. Mine did. And while I cannot change what happened, I no longer carry the belief that I wasn't enough. I was doing the best I could, and so was my body.

Second Pregnancy

My second pregnancy happened just ten months after my first. It wasn't something I had planned, but once I knew I was pregnant, there was never any question in my mind, I wanted this baby.

I was due in October, but during one of my appointments my doctor explained that my uterine wall was very thin after my previous Caesarean. Waiting until my due date could increase the risk of complications, so we decided on an elective C-section a little earlier. I trusted her advice completely.

"I want every woman to know that there is no hierarchy in birth."

As they prepared me for surgery, I was given the spinal anaesthesia. I remember accidentally stretching my back while they were administering it, something I wasn't supposed to do.

Once the surgery began, I could actually see the reflection of everything in the glasses my obstetrician was wearing. I watched them make the incision and begin the surgery. Even today, I can picture those moments as clearly as if they happened yesterday.

Then they lifted my baby out.

Everyone in the operating room was busy doing what they needed to do, and no one told me whether I had a boy or a girl. I finally asked, "Is it a boy or a girl?" The doctor smiled and said, "A girl."

A single tear rolled down my cheek. One boy. One girl. In that moment, I felt complete.

But within minutes, something changed.

The numbness from the spinal anaesthesia seemed to move higher than expected. My chest felt completely numb. I couldn't feel myself breathing, and no matter how hard I tried, it felt as though no air was going into my lungs. I remember the panic on my face before I could even find the words. When I finally managed to tell the doctors that I couldn't breathe, they acted immediately. I don't remember exactly what they did, only that it gradually settled.

For years afterwards, I struggled with wheezing. Whether it was directly related or not, I cannot say with certainty, but it became a part of my life for almost eight years and still makes an occasional appearance even now.

Emotionally, this birth was very different from my first.

No one spoke about a "normal" delivery this time. A Caesarean was expected because my pregnancies were so close together, and I had accepted that long before I entered the operating theatre. But that didn't mean the judgment disappeared. Instead, people questioned how I had become pregnant again so soon. It was as though they had forgotten that life doesn't always follow carefully planned timelines. I had made my choice to continue the pregnancy, and I have never regretted it.

Looking back, my two births couldn't have been more different. One left me feeling like my body had failed me. The other reminded me how quickly things can change even during a planned surgery.

But motherhood?

That has been the constant. Through every unexpected turn, every fear, every scar, every joy, it has remained the most challenging, humbling, and beautiful journey of my life.