I was 22 years old when I found out I was pregnant with my first child. I prayed for a son and God answered me. I decided to name him Jacy. My mother had birthed six children of her own, all natural with exception of one C-section. She boasted how she never needed an epidural for the pain and I was determined to do the same. 

As I grew from 140 pounds to 200 pounds across the nine months, my plan never changed. When I reached 40 weeks, Jacy still hadn’t arrived. My OBGYN recommended we set a date to be induced. I trusted her expertise. She was the doctor. I was just a first-time mom. I checked into the hospital on January 24, 2015 at 3 P.M. l didn’t know what induction would be like or that a yellow rod the size of a boot horn would be used to manually break my water. It was an uncomfortable experience, but I told myself that it was the warm up before contractions. Except the contractions didn’t come rapidly as I laid on my back in the hospital bed for hours on end. The pain started to creep in and the nurses recommended medication that I could receive through the IV. I agreed. Afterall, it wasn’t an epidural. As time went on, the pain from the contractions was more bearable, but I was only three centimeters dilated. My OBGYN came into the room and said my body had become too fatigued and I needed an epidural to move my labor forward. I trusted her expertise. She was the doctor. I was just a first time mom. I remember falling asleep after the anesthesiologist left the room. Nurses kept coming in to monitor the contractions and soon it was time to push. I couldn’t feel anything from the waist down.

“Push, push harder,” they said. The sweetest sound entered the room on January 25, 2015 at 4 P.M. I heard my creation. My baby. My son. My 7 pound Jacy. I thought the hard part was over. I was wrong. I asked my OBGYN if I tore during the delivery and I’ll never forget her words. “You didn’t tear, but I did have to cut you. The baby’s heart rate started to drop during the delivery and I had to give you an episiotomy. Don’t worry. You just have a few stitches and you’ll heal in no time.”

There was much to worry about. Every trip to the bathroom was excruciating. I had anxiety that my stitches would rip and I’d wake up in a puddle of my own blood. The cans of Dermoplast, Peri Bottles, and pain pills were daily reminders to myself to never let this happen again. I was a first time mother, but I still had a voice. A voice that I allowed to be silent in the face of those who I deemed more knowledgeable than me.  

I decided to exercise my voice when I was blessed to have a second child in January 2022. I looked for a birth center instead of a hospital. I found a midwife instead of an OBGYN. I got a pelvic floor therapist to help prepare my body for delivery. I hired a doula to teach me how to breathe and advocate for my birth plan. I went into labor January 1, 2022 at 11:50 p.m. After arriving at the birth center, I was free to move—to stand, to sit, to squat, to rest in a tub of water. I breathed through each contraction and rested in between. I could drink water. I could eat. I listened to music and kept the lights dim. My second son Atlas entered the world less than four hours later at 3:30 a.m. January 2, 2022. He was 9 pounds. This time there was no tear. No episiotomy. By not silencing my voice, Atlas and I were both healthy, intact, and able to begin a new life together with his big brother Jacy.    

I may not be my mother. I may not be an OBGYN. But I am Jacy and Atlas’s mother. I know now my voice is worthy of being heard, no matter who the expert is.  

When and how have you listened to your voice?