There’s a certain type of woman people assume would be pro–home birth.
If you’re reading this, you might be that woman too.
I’m the homemaker. The homesteader. The slow-living, from-scratch, herbal-tea-drinking, trust-your-body type. I believe childbirth is a natural process. Women have been doing it for centuries, long before fluorescent hospital lights and IV poles. I believe a home birth can be deeply empowering. One of those moments where it feels like all feminine energy in the universe is standing behind you, hands on your back, saying you can do this.
Not to mention: you give birth, crawl into your own bed, eat your own food, and don’t get a hospital bill the size of a small mortgage.
So yes. In many ways, I am very pro home birth.
And yet—I have not had one.
I will never have one.
I will likely never experience what most people would consider a “natural” birth.
That has been something I’ve had to grieve, wrestle with, and ultimately come to terms with.
When Birth Plans Meet Reality
We invest a lot into our birth experiences.
We read the books.
We follow the accounts.
We craft the birth plan with bullet points and preferences and backup preferences.
And there’s nothing wrong with that.
But here’s the truth that doesn’t get said enough:
the best birth plan is making the most of the hand you’ve been dealt.
Sometimes that hand includes interventions.
Sometimes it includes specialists.
Sometimes it includes operating rooms instead of birthing tubs.
And sometimes, no matter how aligned your preferences are, reality steps in and says, this is how we keep you alive.
That can feel like a loss. And it deserves to be named as one.
Holding Gratitude and Grief at the Same Time
Let me be very clear about something before going further:
I have a beautiful, healthy daughter whom I love more than words can hold.
She is everything.
I would walk through any birth experience again—every fear, every intervention, every hard moment—if it meant having her.
But two things can be true at once.
You can be deeply grateful and still grieve the birth you didn’t get.
That grief doesn’t make you ungrateful.
It makes you human.
The Perspective That Changed Everything for Me
At some point, I needed a reality check—not the harsh kind, but the grounding kind.
In my case, most people born before the 1980s with my condition didn’t even survive past childhood.
That stopped me in my tracks.
Reality check number one.
Reality check number two: there have been very few women who have carried pregnancies and given birth with my condition at all. The fact that I can do so—under medical care, with support, with planning—is nothing short of a miracle.
Every pregnancy I have will be considered high risk.
Every child I carry will exist because of modern medicine, skilled providers, and a lot of careful monitoring.
And once I allowed myself to fully see that, something shifted.
Redefining Strength in Birth
I realized that my story doesn’t lack power—it just looks different.
My strength is not proven by how little help I need.
It’s proven by how willingly I accept help when it’s required.
My births may never look “crunchy” or aesthetic or Instagram-worthy.
But they are intentional.
They are brave.
They are deeply rooted in love and responsibility.
And honestly? Knowing that my pregnancies themselves are miracles has a way of quieting the voice that says I’m “missing out.”
Because I’m not missing out—I’m participating in something extraordinary in the way I was designed to.
If This Is You Too
If you wanted a home birth and it isn’t an option for you, I want you to hear this:
You did not fail.
Your body is not broken.
Your birth still counts.
Intervention does not cancel empowerment.
Safety does not erase strength.
A hospital does not make your birth less sacred.
Birth is not a performance.
It is not a competition.
It is not proof of worth.
It is simply the way your child enters the world.
And sometimes, choosing life—yours and your baby’s—is the most powerful birth choice there is.
I did enjoy this book as a least a way to feel informed.
