When Birth Isn't and Doesn't Go As Planned

My journey of surrender, strength and self-worth

The Dream We Carry

I spent all that time visualizing my child's birth like a holy ceremony because it was for me. I envisioned golden light filtering in the window, warm water lapping around me in a birthing tub, my partner rubbing my back while our playlist played peaceful beats throughout the room. I dreamed of swaying gently through contractions, murmuring mantras my grandmother had taught me and catching my baby in my own hands with the help of our midwife. It would be raw, and peaceful, and powerful. A narrative to tell in the future through generations.

That vision was about more than logistics. It was me affirming my trust— in my body, my culture, my decisions, my intuition. I formulated a vision that gave homage to those who had gone before me and also reflected my own experience of becoming a mother. I thought the universe would catch up when I got there. I didn't know then that birth has its own wild, uncontrollable beat — and that sometimes, the beauty isn't in what goes right, but in how we rise in the face of disaster.

Building the "Perfect" Plan

When you're expecting, planning feels therapeutic. It provides a feeling of control at a time when our bodies and emotions feel perpetually in flux." For me, that plan was grounded in natural birth: no drugs, no interventions, just breath, movement and faith. I set up a birth altar with the photos of all the women in my family, affirmation cards I had taped on the wall, and every herb tea you can imagine prepared ahead of time.

And I wasn't alone. In so many circles — particularly online — there's a powerful, sometimes unspoken, message that a "good" birth is a natural one. We praise home birth for home birthers; we laud unmedicated labor and intervention-free delivery as badges of honor. But what if that which we hoped for, fought for, prayed for, and, seemed to slip away?

The Unexpected Turn

Labor began fast and fierce. It was a peaceful evening on which my water broke, and within an hour I was in established labour. It was intense but manageable, and I relied on everything I had learned — deep breathing, hip sways, low moans, warm compresses. My doula and midwife were amazing, and my mom had one of the candles burning, uttering prayers in Spanish between contractions. It felt hard, but purposeful. I thought I was heading for the birth I'd pictured.

But as the hours wore on, the energy in the room began to change. My baby wasn't rotating. I was having back labor so debilitating I couldn't stand and I stalled. Next were the decelerations — the dips in my baby's heart rate that caused everyone in the delivery room to hold their breath. The midwife put her hand on my shoulder, firm and gentle, and said the words I'd feared hearing: "We need to transfer to the hospital."

I felt something in my chest crack in half.

A Story I Didn't Want to Tell

The hospital was fluorescent and sterile and everything I hadn't planned. My new life included monitors, IVs and finally — an epidural. Then came an avalanche of interventions: Pitocin, an oxygen mask and finally, a vacuum-assisted birth to assist my baby safely out. I felt as if I were being swept along in a current I no longer had the power to control.

I remember clenching the cold, silver hospital bed rail, shaking and scared, feeling like I was giving up — giving up not just my plan, but my power. Even as I pressed my baby to my chest and wept the tears of love and relief I had hoped would come, a part of me whispered, This wasn't how this was going to happen.

The Guilt No One Talks About

In the weeks that followed, that guilt didn't dissipate. I smiled for photos. I sent thank-you texts. But inside, I was grieving the delivery I didn't get to have. When well-intentioned friends would say, "At least she's healthy!" I agreed, but felt a knot in my chest tighten. I felt ungrateful to be so sad — like I was somehow a bad mother for needing to process a birth that was safe but painful.

It wasn't until I came across a late-night Reddit thread titled "Birth Plan Grief" that I realized that I wasn't the only one. Post after post from moms echoed the same narrative: plans waylaid, feelings of failure and sad, silent pangs of unspoken disappointment. Some felt betrayed by their bodies, others by society. All felt unseen.

The thread was a turning point. It showed me that grief and gratitude can sit comfortably beside one another — and that healing comes when we allow each to have a voice.

Reframing Strength

Because here's the truth I wish someone had told me sooner: it's not that birth is powerful because it follows a plan – it's that birth is powerful because we are there anyway, even when everything crumbles. I wasn't good at giving birth the old-fashioned way. It was in adapting. They are asking questions in tears. In deciding to transfer. In accepting the help I didn't want but so clearly needed.

I didn't lose control. I opted for a different type of control: the kind that says yes to safety, yes to change, yes to the messy miracle of motherhood.

The poster says, "This is the birth story I used to be ashamed of." Now?,,, I say that with my chest. Because it's real. And I know I'm not the only one who needs to hear that they're still strong, still whole and still worthy—even when things don't go as planned.

What Our Mothers Knew

Later, And finally, it was my mother who pulled my weeping body to her bosom and whispered, "Mija, birth is never just about the baby. It's also the birth of you." She also reminded me that she did have with me a national emergency interventions. That my abuela once worked through a hurricane by herself. That the women in our family had always done whatever was necessary to bring life into the world — even when it meant changing course.

These are the stories that we don't always hear. But they are our stories. And strong, gentile and survivable all at once. The ones that show us that love has nothing to do with how you planned for it. It has to do with how you showed up for it.

A Gentle Invitation to Heal

If you are carrying your own complicated birth story, I want to ask you three things:

• Name what hurts. Your feelings are valid. Disappointment doesn't erase your joy — it deepens your truth.
• Find your people. And talk to other moms who understand! The ones who will hold room for both your tears and your triumphs.
• Tell your story. Speak it aloud. Write it down. Give it to someone who isn't a judge. That is the world you are in now, and it deserves to be honored.

From Perfection to Presence

Mama, we were not aiming to be perfect. It was presence.

And you were so present. In the decisions. In the pain. In the love. In the becoming.

So just in case no one has told you today: You are not less than. You are not broken. You are not alone.

You are a mother — and that is always more than enough.

Con cariño y comunidad,
Marisol