A Birth Story.
I was kicking the sand as I walked along the beach while my husband swam in the water. Something in my heart knew that it would be my last walk pregnant, my last walk carrying company within, my last walk as wife and Cortney as I knew it. I would never be the same after this. My heart, forever taking a different, larger shape, expanding its capacity for joy, pain, and love. There is something incredibly powerful about female intuition, it cannot be explained or tamed. It’s a wisdom all its own, often misunderstood by the world, doctors, and even the woman herself. When a woman “knows” – she knows. She and others would be better off if we all trusted it.
So much went down in my heart in those moments. As I lied on the beach towel to rest my body, pulling my hat down over my face, I saw the sun beams peak through my straw hat. I kept hearing God say “I’m going to let the light in… I’m going to let the light in.” My entire pregnancy, I worked on and through some things that were altogether difficult and rather painful. I didn’t want to enter into labor, or motherhood, with some things taking up so much room in my heart. I didn’t want to enter in hindered. There were things that happened as a little girl that seemed to continually taint my idea of womanhood, of what it meant to be a mom, and I certainly never learned or was taught to embrace my body for the insane gift that it is. Being pregnant allowed me the healing to realize this body, this vessel, is inherently good, sacred, and without stain. And even more so, it carries within her a wisdom that forever remains a mystery to me. The body knows what to do, how to do it, and it’s better left untouched so she can have her way.
I watched my husband swim in the waves, like he’s done so many times before. And our entire marriage up to that point flashed before my eyes. All the laughter, the conflicts, the tears, the laughter, the wrestling. All the first-time’s we had would soon become last-time’s. An end was upon us, and every end is a new beginning.
All change is loss, and all loss must be grieved. Even good change. As much as we couldn’t wait to meet her, we talked a lot about mourning… mourning the end of a season, this husband and wife thing that was just us. We wanted and prayed for her, she literally surprised us with joy the day I found out I was pregnant, and yet still, the end of an era points toward necessary mourning, or else the new season upon us would be heaped with the burden of the loss of what used to be.
I realize some people may think that sounds depressing, though we didn’t mean it as such, and it certainly didn’t feel depressing. Just a necessary wringing out of life, of these final months, and weeks and minutes of life together. I think so often, we rush from one season of life to the next, never fully letting go of the season passing, that we end up carrying with us unnecessary weight into the next. We don’t release and embrace. We were so aware this could happen – and so we spent our days recognizing this truth, excitedly preparing our hearts for the lifelong change about to happen.
I kept feeling a powerful force radiate in and around my hips, a spreading, a widening – but like so many times before, I was quick to try and convince myself this wasn’t it. Between 4 and 6pm, contractions grew more steady, 15 minutes apart. And by 6 o’clock in the evening of May 9th, they were suddenly 7 minutes, then 5, and by 7pm, they were a short minute to a minute and a half apart. I called my doula and best friend, Jennifer, to which she said “I’m 99% positive you’re in labor.” Even then, there were spurts of denial rising in me. “I can’t be… can I?” I hung up the phone and surrendered.
Surrender. No word describes my life in pregnancy and postpartum quite like surrender. Surrendering expectations, my way, my body, my everything. There is no such thing as forcing it or making it happen, the greater I resist, the harder it all gets. It’s a constant yielding that sometimes I ask myself “is this the last time?” And I quickly remind myself, no, not ever. Something about having a child teaches you surrender like maybe nothing else does. It highlights all your selfishness, all your desire for convenience, all your entitlements, all your “what about me.”
I made my way to a spot on the floor in my bedroom that I go to whenever I need a good cry. Something about the floor grounds me in ways few other things do. For some reason, this has always been my safe piece of ground in my house. I talked with my husband in-between contractions as we waited for Jenn to arrive. I was excited, unafraid, and honestly, not one bit nervous. I felt an immense amount of peace. In no point during my labor did I feel like things would go wrong – and I only felt fear for about 60 seconds during which my incredible midwife asked me “what do you feel afraid of?” My answer: pushing her head out! She responded with empathy, as if she felt it with me, and that was all I needed. The fear passed as soon as it ended and into the next surge I went.
Long before I was ever married, I knew I wanted to have a homebirth. I also knew that whatever man I married was going to have to be an open and willing one, because I just couldn’t see myself giving birth in a hospital – and frankly, that option scared me more than my own living room. Every woman is different – and I’ll never pass judgment on a woman for choosing what’s best for her and her baby – but this was my choice, and I’m beyond grateful I had the gift in doing what I hoped for.
I can’t not share this story without talking about my husband Chris. A man who is willing to step into a homebirth is just that: a man. I remember when I first told him this is what I wanted, his face turned slightly white and he replied “I’m open.” It is rare, I believe, for a husband to labor with his wife, to whisper in her ear, to breathe with her, to rub her back, to hold her hand, and… wait for it, to get in the birth pool with her. In our medical world of curtains and fluorescents and hospital gowns and latex gloves, we find ourselves at a sterile distance from life. Armed by fear we miss out on the vulnerability that birth brings, which does something to the human heart I cannot explain. Chris’s words before she was born “can I catch her” constantly ring in my ear. I know he will catch her forever – from trips and falls, heartaches and struggles. He’s that dad.
I could not have labored without him. Between every push, I rested back on him like my life depended on it. Sweat dripping down my face, pain radiating throughout my whole body, fatigued to no end, and feeling like I could pass out from exhaustion in between pushes… he was right there, all along. To say that this choice in a home birth stretched him is an understatement. I’ll forever be grateful to him. I believe something was birthed in him too – he endured through faith and with courage in something he felt intensely vulnerable through. As someone who is prone to find the fracture points in things (which has it’s strengths too) he had to choose faith – to trust – not just God, but himself. He is my hero. And no other person deserves that title.
The way our culture cares for (or lack thereof) women in pregnancy and labor is astounding to me. It’s the most vulnerable, out-of-body, mysterious, all-encompassing experience and women are often treated merely like a pregnant belly. If there’s one thing about midwifery care I can say – it’s that I felt cared for from the inside out, not just at appointments, but in-between too. I wasn’t just a pregnant belly, I was a person with a soul, with a heartbeat too, who was experiencing the full spectrum of emotion as my body grew. More often than not, I sat in my (incredible) midwife Lindsey’s office at my appointments, talking about the state of my heart and not the state of my belly. She encouraged me as I shared my story, to meditate and speak life over my body throughout the following months… and so I did.
I grieved for the ways I’d not trusted my body, I released the negative narrative I’d believed for so long of “my body is against me.” As my belly grew, my trust grew – trust that this God-given creation of my soul with skin on was a grand gift to be cherished. I got my eyes and ears on every POSITIVE birth video and story I could. I read countless stories of women who brought life into this world without medication, intervention or interruption. Those stories, to this day, filled my soul – and they instilled in me a mindset that I too, could do this. That me, my little girl, and God’s grace would grant us the courage and strength to endure.
I went from floor, to birth ball, to living room, to standing, to shower, to couch, to birth pool. 6 hours of real labor and 2 hours of pushing – and we met our little girl on May 10th at 2:17am. Labor is a trippy experience. I don’t know how else to put it. The body knows, and it does its thing. I found that the more I embraced the pain, without fear, the more constructive the contraction. I didn’t do a birth class, as I spent more time dealing with any emotion or trauma that was still living in my body, which I knew could potentially hinder my labor. At times, I worried if I was prepared because I didn’t take some class. At times, I worried if I had the physical stamina, being an athlete all my life, but found myself sedentary for much of my pregnancy due to torn ligaments in my ankle, which left me on crutches and in physical therapy well up to my due date. But Jennifer continued to remind me it was all mental. She was right.
I’ve never experienced pain and struggle like that – and I’ve also never experienced glory and joy like that. There has been no greater gift thus far in my life than to reach down and feel my little girl as she made her way between two worlds – out of the one that created her, and into this one. The surges of labor are other-worldly, as if a power from within rises up and greets you with a sacred strength you didn’t know you had. As silly as it may sound, I’m thankful I felt it all – it felt like a right-of-passage, something woman have done since the beginning of time. I felt connected to all women – a holy bond. If they could do it, I knew could do it.
As I think about birth, I wonder if at times the pain we feel in seasons of difficulty are really birth pangs. What we see as struggle, is merely preparation for something new, something greater. God and his ways, ripening us for what’s next, exercising our heart and soul to be ready. Like labor, every new beginning –and the transformation before it- is birthed through struggle and wrestle; through that cocoon like state where the butterfly beats its wings against its home in order to build the colors and strength to fly.
Birth is happening all around us, all the time. Not just birth from womb to world, but birth and re-birth of relationships, marriages, and even the human soul. Life is often found in a state of transition – in-between destinations and events. The moment we reach one stop, we are off on another. Life is full of long waits and then suddenly’s. The birth of a little life is such a profound picture – a woman carries a baby from seed to full grown, births him or her through the pains of labor, and then out comes joy. If that’s not like life, I don’t know what is. All things start small, as tiny steps or seeds, and then through great care and intentionality (and often struggle or pain), they grow. And then, at just the perfect time, something new is born. And at that moment, the former season forever passes, and a new one begins.
I remember Lindsey telling me “reach down you can feel her head”– I could feel the top of a tiny head and soft hair. It was surreal. There was a soft lit glow in my apartment, my eyes had been closed for most of labor, and I’d softly open my eyes at times in between surges. I remember Lindsey’s voice, Jenn’s voice, Chris’s voice – I remember their encouragement, their support, and their love. Midwives do such sacred work – and doulas are right there beside them. Every woman needs such an advocate. These women will forever be sealed on my heart for the peaceful presence they brought.
I remember thinking: this is it, we are going to meet her, and it was everything in me to push through. You go somewhere else in labor – to some other place in your mind, and all I could think of was the minute I was in – whether it was a resting minute, or a laboring minute.
At times I could picture my little girl inside, making her journey downward. We would meet soon. What did she look like? What was the sound of her cry? After waiting and hoping so long, the moment was here. It felt like a blip, like these 34 years of life flew by and now here I was, birthing into motherhood like I’d desired my whole life.
Olivia Grace Hubbard, our “Livy Love,” slipped out head first with a left arm raised by her head (probably sucking on her hand those 9 months!) at 2:17am on May 10th. Into the hands of Lindsey, and then Chris and I, as we scooped her up and onto my chest. All I could think and say, in utter shock, “Oh my gosh she’s real.” There’s nothing like seeing a life you grew inside, land on your chest as she breaths her first breath.
Heaven cracks open in that moment. And I swear, in the face of my little girl, I saw the face of God. Eyes alert and expressive, she lied on my chest as we made way to our bed – and she rested on me for the next hour – the sacred hour. It was hard to believe that I’d done it – that we’d done it- and she was finally here. No one can prepare you for that moment. The moment you become a mom to this little life that is now outside your belly. The filters you once looked through all change – life is different. It’s as if the lens widens and expands and certain things come into focus that never were.
I’ll never forget those first minutes and hours taking her all in. Fresh from that watery world she lived in for 40+weeks. Swollen eyes and perfect skin. The high is unreal.
All of this is in the rear-view mirror, now 3 months later. Postpartum has had its own ups and downs, which may take me months to process as its proved to be much harder than labor. All that to say, this story will forever be a memory now. This experience is over – and if I’m honest – a part of me didn’t want to write this yet, as it somewhat feels like closure to the experience. As hard as it was, she will continue to grow up and older and she and I will not pass that way again. It’s bittersweet. I look forward to what’s next, I miss what was, and I enjoy what is. I love her with everything – and I tell her every day.
The miracle of life is astounding. The divine design behind humanity is not only creative, but perfect, beautiful, and without error. I still pinch myself that I got to be a part of growing such a gift.
And to any woman, pregnant or yet to be, here’s to you and your story. Choose the kind of birth you want – and then give the power to no one, but that voice inside you, telling you what’s best for you and your baby. Whatever your story may be, however it may look, whether it goes as planned or not, you’re a good mom. You deserve the best care, the utmost support, and a strong love from those around you.
Live In His Light 