Entry #16 • December 23rd, 2025

Last week, I started telling the story of my first birth. This week, we’re picking it back up—mid-chapter.

If you’re jumping in here, you can read this as-is. But if you want the whole arc, I’d recommend going back and reading JM #15 first. By very popular request, I’m slowly weaving my birth stories into Just Me. This one is the beginning of everything.

So—where we left off.

We were talking about my midwife, RuthAnn. At my very first appointment with her (and I was nearly due at this point), she paused, looked at me, and said I looked familiar. After a minute, we figured it out. She had been at a party next door to the house where my wedding reception was held. She remembered seeing me celebrating with friends and family on my wedding day.

It felt like one of those strange little overlaps that make you pay attention.

My next appointment was back with Janet and involved another ultrasound to check my amniotic fluid levels. She expressed concern and mentioned that if I hadn’t had the baby by a certain date, they would start talking about induction. The date itself felt arbitrary, and my internal alarm bells went off immediately.

Then she added, with utmost confidence, “I never miss my births. I always try to be with my patients. However…the weekend of February 25th I’ll be out of town at a conference. So don’t have the baby that weekend, ha!”

Inside my head: Challenge accepted.

Why am I like this? 😅 Everything is not a competition, Megan.

In all seriousness, though, I knew—deep down—that I wanted RuthAnn at my birth. Janet was kind, skilled, and incredibly respected in our town. She had a long legacy here. But RuthAnn felt different. I felt at ease with her. I trusted her. Something in me settled when I was with her.

That mattered more than I knew at the time.

Who You Invite Into the Room Matters

Soapbox moment. Hang with me.

Because of this experience, anytime I’m given the opportunity to talk with an expecting mom who feels hesitant or uneasy about her care provider, I gently encourage her to look around. Who you invite into your birth space matters. It will impact your experience.

There is no prize for staying with a provider who doesn’t feel like a good fit just because it feels awkward to “shop around.” You are not being difficult. You are not being dramatic. You are allowed to choose someone you align with.

Had I stayed with my original provider in Mexico, my experience would have been wildly different—and not in a good way.

Your birth experience is sacred. I know how that word can land. If someone had said that to me before I had kids—or honestly, even after my first birth—I probably would’ve rolled my eyes and thought, Okay, crunchy hippie, sure. But after having experienced birth multiple times now, I believe it wholeheartedly.

Birth changes you.

I believe it shapes how you walk into motherhood. I wish our culture held more respect, reverence, and awe for this moment—an intimate, miraculous crossing that every mother and child pass through together.

That said, I do not believe there is one right way to give birth. I don’t believe every woman should birth at home, or in a birth center, or in a hospital. I don’t believe every woman should avoid medication, or choose it, or plan a vaginal birth, or schedule a cesarean.

Every option carries risk. Every path requires discernment.

But this is the beginning of motherhood. From this moment on, a woman will make decisions for her child again and again—hard ones, nuanced ones, deeply personal ones. And if we strip her of confidence and autonomy before she even crosses the threshold of birth, how much more will she have to fight to reclaim them later?

She will be that child’s mother forever. She deserves to begin that journey trusted, supported, and respected.

I’ll step off my soapbox here—for now.

I left that appointment quietly hoping for two things:

1. That I would go into labor on my own before hitting their arbitrary induction date.
2. That it would happen while Janet was out of town—and that RuthAnn would be on call.

My due date was creeping closer. My mom had planned a baby shower and invited family friends and the high school friends I still had in the area. I was genuinely excited, mostly because it meant seeing people I hadn’t seen in a year or two. The shower was scheduled for Sunday afternoon, February 26th.

Labor Isn't Linear

The night before—Saturday, February 25th—Alberto and I had been invited by some friends to a young adults event their church was putting on. It was a progressive dinner that ended with dessert at someone’s house and a short lesson. While we were there, I noticed my lower back starting to ache. It would hurt, then fade. Then come back again.

I leaned over to Alberto and said, “I wonder if this is it. I wonder if these are contractions.”

When we got home, the intensity slowly picked up. We went to bed, and the pain settled into a rhythm. Every eight to ten minutes, my lower back would erupt in a deep, aching pain. I’d nudge Alberto, half asleep, and he’d instinctively start rubbing my lower back. After about a minute, the pain would subside and I’d drift off—only to be woken again eight minutes later.

The entire night went like that.

The only real relief came from pressure on my lower back, his hands pressing and rubbing through each wave. It was exhausting. I barely slept. By morning, I was almost grateful the night was over just so I could be upright and moving again.

But the contractions didn’t stop. They kept coming, slowly closing the gap between them. I had no appetite, and by lunchtime they were coming every five to seven minutes.

By then, my mom knew what was happening, and we were trying to decide what to do about the baby shower. It was too close to the start time—3:00 p.m.—to cancel or reschedule. I was going to miss it.

At 2:45 p.m., I called the on-call midwife.

Drumroll.

RuthAnn.

She talked me through what I was feeling, asking questions and helping me pinpoint where I likely was in the process. Based on what I told her, she suggested it was probably a good time to come in and see how things were progressing.

By 3:30 p.m., Alberto and I were walking out the door, headed for the hospital—while my baby shower guests were sitting in the living room celebrating without me. I gave a weak little wave as we left. I had been hiding in the bedroom, quietly laboring while people arrived.

I was definitely disappointed to miss my own baby shower.

At that point, I only knew two people who had recently given birth. One was a local friend, and the other was my cousin, who had her first baby just two months earlier. Both had delivered without medication, which was what I was hoping to do.

I had always looked up to my cousin, and I remember thinking, Okay. If she can do it, then I can DEFINITELY do it. There’s no way I’m letting her beat me at this.

Yes, I am painfully competitive. Everything is a challenge. You’re probably noticing a theme.

My local friend had given me very specific advice: when I got to the hospital, I had to request the room with the jacuzzi tub. She swore that the moment she stepped into the warm water, she dilated instantly and was ready to push.

In my mind, I had already decided—that was the key. That was how I was going to get through labor.

Upon arrival at the hospital, I immediately requested the room with the jacuzzi tub.

They told me it was already taken.

Womp womp.

They got me settled into a room, checked my dilation, and let me know I was at a 5.

Hmph.

I had really hoped I’d show up basically ready to push, so hearing I was only halfway there was discouraging. (For anyone not familiar with birth language: dilation refers to how many centimeters the cervix has opened to allow the baby to pass through. Ten centimeters is considered fully dilated.)

The nurses started offering options—walking the halls, sitting on a birth ball, trying the tub. I told them I wanted the tub, because in my mind, that was the golden ticket.

Ironically, I don’t even like baths.

But I was completely convinced this would move things along quickly, based solely on my friend’s experience.

At that time, before the labor and delivery wing was remodeled a couple years later, there were only two tubs. One was in the coveted room with the built-in tub (already taken), and the other was in what felt like a tiny closet off the main hallway.

That’s where they took me.

And I hated it.

I stayed in there for about an hour, stressed the entire time. I felt wildly exposed—I had no idea I could have, or should have, brought a bathing suit—and I was paranoid someone would accidentally open the door from the hallway. I was tense. On edge. Anxious.

Exactly the opposite of what a woman needs to feel while laboring.

After an hour, I was done. They checked my dilation again.

Six centimeters.

Ughhhhh.

I felt so frustrated. The pain felt like a lot (or at least what I thought was a lot), and everything felt painfully slow. In reality, that’s a very average dilation rate for a first-time mom—about one centimeter an hour—but I didn’t know that then.

By this point it was around 5:00 p.m. RuthAnn explained that I’d likely continue progressing at about a centimeter an hour. I counted on my fingers. That meant maybe four more hours.

I was already coming up on twenty-four hours since the first twinges of pain at the progressive dinner the night before. Four more hours sounded miserable.

Then, almost in the same breath, she offered—okay, strongly suggested—breaking my water.

I didn’t really know what that meant, but it sounded painful. I asked if it would hurt. She said no…while holding up what looked like a giant crochet hook.

Excuse me, WHAT?

She explained that breaking my water could help speed things up. I didn’t really feel like I had the clarity—or the space—to say no, so I conceded. (For the record, knowing what I know now, I would never consent to this again. After this birth, I never allowed anyone to break my water—it carries risks I’m no longer comfortable with.)

And also…despite how terrifying it looked, it didn’t hurt at all. I barely felt anything.

But wow.

That sure fired things up.

Within fifteen minutes of my water breaking, my contractions were back-to-back. One after another, with no real pause. It felt relentless. I honestly thought I might break.

RuthAnn suggested I try the shower for some relief. Still very lost in the process and unaware just how intense things were about to get, I trusted her and made my way there.

I was in the shower for maybe thirty minutes, and with every contraction I remember thinking, I am never doing this again. We had talked about having lots of kids, but nope. That plan was over. This was it. We were going to have to figure something else out.

THIS is awful.

Each contraction lasted about a minute, followed by a two-minute break. I moaned my way through every one. My sweet—and equally lost—husband stood on the other side of the shower curtain, offering encouragement.

I didn’t feel encouraged.

I felt desperate to ensure I would never experience this again. I was only ten months into my marriage. How could I possibly guarantee I’d NEVER EVER get pregnant again?

Then I started feeling a lot of pressure.

Like…I had to poop.

I feel like I should apologize for being graphic (haha “graphic,” please) to the guys on this email list—but honestly, they signed up for behind-the-scenes life. Suckers. Kidding. Mostly.

But yes. I really felt like I had to poop.

I vaguely remembered reading somewhere that this could happen when you’re close to pushing. Not really knowing how to articulate what I needed, I called out from the shower, “Uhhh…I feel like I have to poop!”

That got RuthAnn’s attention immediately.

Cool as a cucumber, she said, “Okay, with the next contraction, try pushing like you’re going to poop.”

I thought she was crazy.

But I did it.

After that contraction ended, she said, “Oh yeah. Those are pushing contractions. Good job. Let’s get you back to the bed.”

I waddled myself back to the bed, where I had insisted I wanted to deliver in a squatting position.

I had done enough research—not much, but enough—to know I didn’t want to give birth sitting reclined on my back. Everything I’d read explained that anatomically, squatting is an optimal position for birth. It allows your body, and your baby, to work with gravity. It helps the baby’s head move up and over the pubic bone.

There are other great positions too—standing, kneeling, hands and knees, sitting on a birth stool—but I had my heart set on squatting.

The problem is, many care providers don’t love those positions. Not because they aren’t effective, but because they’re harder for the provider. It’s easier to “catch” a baby when the mom is reclined on her back.

In 2006, when I had my first baby, the hospital had squat bars. They could attach them to the bed so the mom could stand near the foot of it, hold on, and bear down in a squat. It elevated the mom enough to make it workable for the provider, and gave the mom something solid to grip.

I climbed onto the bed, grabbed the squat bar, and pushed with everything I had during the next contraction.

My husband, midwife, and nurses cheered me on as I pushed—having absolutely no idea what I was doing. Pushing a baby out is a wild experience, especially the first time. You don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like. You don’t know if you’re doing it right.

I probably pushed like that ten times. I was shaking uncontrollably—partly from hormones (normal), but also from sheer exhaustion. I had barely slept the night before, and I’d been laboring for nearly twenty-four hours at that point with no real break.

Between contractions, I kept telling everyone around me that I was STARVING. Like…ravenous. I felt like I could eat through a wall.

Then another contraction would hit. I’d push again, legs shaking, body spent. And when it ended, it felt like nothing had changed.

Except I was still starving.

Eventually, RuthAnn suggested I take a break from the squat bar and recline back on the bed. I was exhausted, and I was struggling to hold myself up, no matter how badly I wanted to birth that way. So I conceded—again—and ended up reclined about forty-five degrees.

The nurses—and maybe my husband—held my legs as I leaned forward and pushed with each contraction. They kept telling me they could see the baby moving closer, but it didn’t feel like anything was happening.

At one point, a nurse came in and said my mom had been talking with my cousin, who had just had her first baby a couple months earlier. My cousin suggested using a mirror so I could see the baby descending—it had helped her feel encouraged while pushing.

My immediate thought: no. Absolutely not.

Next, RuthAnn offered that I could feel the baby’s head with my hand.

Also no. Hard pass.

Looking back, what stands out to me now is how disconnected I felt from my own body in that moment. I don’t know exactly why, but it was very real. I had zero interest in seeing or touching what was happening. That’s wildly different from my later births.

When Something Clicked

About thirty or forty minutes into pushing, RuthAnn said something that changed everything.

“Megan,” she said, “you’re pushing with your legs. You need to push with your bottom. Pay attention—don’t push with your legs. Push with your butt.”

Huh.

Okay. Roger that.

With the next contraction, I focused all my effort into my butthole (I cannot believe I just typed that), and WOAH.

Now we were talking.

That felt completely different.

Something clicked. Things started moving. Within fifteen minutes, I had a baby emerging.

They positioned my husband to catch the baby and explained that he’d lift the baby up onto me. My husband loves to tell this story, so I’m sharing it here because it’s too good not to.

As the baby was crowning, my husband kept saying, “It’s just a little head.”

And I remember thinking, Sir. That is NOT a little head. I can feel it.

But bless him—he had no idea what he was actually looking at. Which is fair.

When the head came out, he thought he was seeing the entire backside of the baby. And he thought to himself (thankfully not out loud), Wow…this baby is really hairy. That’s okay though. I’ll still love it.

He thought that full head of hair was the baby.

With one more push, the rest of the body slipped out—you know, behind the head—and his face was absolutely hysterical. His jaw nearly hit the floor when he realized how big an actual newborn baby really is…and that I just pushed it out.

They placed the baby on my belly while scrambling to cut the cord (I have…different feelings about that now too). Once it was cut, they lifted the baby to my chest and asked my husband to announce the gender.

A baby boy.

I couldn’t believe it.

I was absolutely over the moon.

And—I was starving. Truly, deeply starving. I reminded everyone of this immediately. I don’t remember how it happened, but somehow a burger and fries appeared while I was still in the delivery room, and I happily ate them right there. They told me they’d never had a mom complain about being famished and asking to eat between pushing contractions before.

I’d imagined my first baby as a boy long before I was ever pregnant. But once we decided not to find out the gender, I convinced myself it would be a girl. It felt safer that way.

And then…he was a boy.

I was stunned.

I knew his name immediately. I’d chosen it years earlier: Ethan Andrew. I couldn’t believe I had my little Ethan Andrew.

RuthAnn let me know I had torn, but only slightly. A few stitches would take care of it. After that, we were moved to the mother/baby unit and given space to rest and recover. I started learning how to breastfeed. We showed off our baby to visiting family and a few close friends. Within a couple of days, we were discharged and back at my parents’ house, beginning the slow, disorienting work of recovering and learning this entirely new way of life.

Ethan was born on February 26th.

Our return flight to Mexico was scheduled for March 10th.

The next week and a half passed in a blur. We barely scratched the surface of what it meant to be parents. And then suddenly, it was time. On March 10th, my mom—eyes wet—drove us to an airport about an hour away. We hugged her goodbye and boarded a plane with a baby who wasn’t even two weeks old.

Looking back now, I hold that birth with so much reverence. I can’t believe how perfectly it all worked out. I got the midwife I wanted. I had the birth I hoped for. Everything was calm and uneventful enough that we were able to fly internationally with a brand-new baby and buckets of ignorance and confidence. It’s wild to reflect back and realize I was only nineteen then—just a couple months away from turning twenty. And now, that same baby boy is nearly the same age. Just a couple months shy of twenty himself.

That birth—my initiation into motherhood—would shape my future births and my parenting in ways I couldn’t have imagined at the time.

I could keep going. There are so many stories from that flight home, to those first weeks back in Mexico. But I’ll save those for another entry.

For now, I’ll stop here.

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Thanks for indulging me,

-Just Me[gan]