When Birth Doesn’t Go As Planned: Trauma, Healing & Finding My Way Back to Myself

Trigger Warning: Birth Trauma / Postpartum Depression

If you followed me online (when I was on social media), you would have seen the beautiful parts of my life. The quiet rituals. The laughter. The love.

And it is all real.

But what you don’t always see is that beauty and trauma can exist in the same story.

I love my family more than words can hold. I love my babies fiercely. And still, Levi’s birth was traumatic for me. I have been navigating PTSD and postpartum depression since that day.

Levi and I are warriors. We braved his entrance into this world together. We are stronger because of it. But strength doesn't mean it didn’t break something open inside me first.

The Fear That Changed Everything

When I became pregnant with Levi at 42, I felt joy. Age didn’t worry me — until a few weeks before my due date.

My midwife gently shared that the rate of stillbirth increases after 39 weeks for women over 40.

That information settled into my body like a weight.

Deep down, I did not want to be induced. I knew it in my bones. But the fear was louder. I couldn’t un-hear what I had been told. So I scheduled the induction at 39 weeks.

Already, I wasn’t listening to my intuition.

Saying Goodbye

The morning of my scheduled induction, I said goodbye to Lucy, my pandemic baby, my daughter, who had never spent a night away from me.

I thought I’d be home in a couple of days.

But the hospital was busy. My induction kept getting pushed back. Every delay felt devastating. Each time they told me it would be later, something inside of me unraveled. I sobbed. It felt like an emotional rollercoaster I couldn’t step off of.

No one really prepares mothers for that part.

The next day, I said goodbye to Lucy again. My partner and I walked into the hospital. I told myself: You’ve done this before. You’ve got this.

But this birth would not look like Lucy’s.

When My Body Was No Longer My Own

The induction began slowly. Then it intensified.

I began having contractions back-to-back with no break. The nurse called it “coupling.” There was no rest. No pause. No space to breathe. My body was working so hard, and I had nowhere to land between waves.

Pitocin was added to help me progress. The pain became overwhelming. I chose an epidural.

And that is when everything shifted.

Levi’s heart rate began dropping. He was in distress. Because of the epidural, I couldn’t move. All night long, a kind nurse stayed with me, repositioning my body over and over to try to help my baby and me.

She was incredible. I will always be grateful for her.

But inside, I felt trapped. Touched. Moved. Adjusted. Monitored.

At one point, I cried out, “I don’t want to be touched anymore!”

But I didn’t have a choice.

My only request on my birth plan had been: No C-section.

The next morning, the words I feared most were spoken.

They suspected the umbilical cord was wrapped or twisted. Levi wasn’t tolerating labor.

“We need to move to surgery.”

Everything happened fast. Too fast.

The Operating Room

I don’t remember signing the forms. I don’t remember the medications they gave me. I remember fear. I remember my heart racing. I remember tears filling my eyes.

I remember so many people, but feeling so alone.

They transferred me to the operating table. When they began surgery, I started vomiting and crying. I kept asking, “Is everything okay?”

Then they held my baby up.

Silence.

Where were his cries?

They rushed him to another table.

“He is not breathing.”

The most terrifying words I have ever heard.

My partner went to our son. Doctors and nurses swarmed him. I was strapped to a table. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t see him. I couldn’t go to him. Every instinct in my body screamed to get to my baby.

Finally — cries.

He was breathing.

But he was taken to the nursery for monitoring. My partner went with him.

And I was left alone on the operating table, in and out of consciousness from blood loss.

No baby.
No partner.
Just silence. Tears. A longing for my baby.

The Aftermath

When they wheeled me back to my room, I was still alone.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t hold him.

A nurse came in to extract colostrum for Levi. I hadn’t even met my son yet.

It shattered me.

Hours later, I finally held him.

He felt like home.

We needed each other.

The Healing No One Talks About

Recovering from a C-section was different from what I expected. Harder in ways I hadn’t prepared for.

When we arrived home, Lucy ran toward me, yelling, “Mama! Mama!”

And I couldn’t pick her up. All I wanted was for her to jump into my arms and feel safe and loved, and I couldn’t; I was in so much pain, tears streaming down my face.

That memory still hurts.

Physically, I was healing. But emotionally, something was wrong.

This was not just postpartum hormones. I had experienced that before. This was different.

There was rage inside of me. Deep, volcanic rage. I found myself yelling. Swearing. Clenching my fists. My heart was racing. I didn’t recognize myself.

I wasn’t enjoying my family. I was surviving in a storm of anger and sadness.

I kept thinking: Why is this happening to me?

The Moment Everything Shifted

At one of Levi’s pediatric appointments, I broke down crying.

I am so grateful I did.

Our pediatrician didn’t dismiss me. She didn’t minimize it. She immediately gave me resources for postpartum depression and referred me to counseling.

At my follow-up with my midwife, I broke down again. And that’s when we connected the dots.

Birth trauma. PTSD.

I found a trauma-informed therapist and began EMDR therapy.

It was life-changing.

After just one session, I felt something lift. For the first time since Levi’s birth, I felt joy. I felt hope. I wanted to go home and truly be with my family.

It didn’t erase what happened. But it allowed my nervous system to soften.

Why I’m Sharing This

Because social media often shows the glow rather than the grief.

Because birth trauma is more common than we talk about.

Because postpartum depression doesn’t always look like sadness. Sometimes it looks like rage. Sometimes it looks like numbness. Sometimes it looks like “I should be fine.”

If you feel “off”…
If you feel unlike yourself…
If something inside you is whispering that you need support…

Please tell someone.

Your pediatrician.
Your doctor.
A friend.
A therapist.
Even me.

You do not have to carry it alone.

Healing is possible. I am living proof.

I am still healing. Still learning. Still navigating motherhood with two beautiful children and a very full life.

But the heaviness has lifted. The light is peeking through again.

And I am so thankful I asked for help.

Resources for Postpartum Support

If you are struggling, please reach out:

• Postpartum Support International – https://www.postpartum.net

• Birth Roots – https://birthroots.org

• Psychology Today Therapist Directory – https://www.psychologytoday.com

• Mindful Healing – https://www.mindfulhealingmaine.com

• 988 Lifeline – https://988lifeline.org

If you are in immediate crisis, please call or text 988.

Be Well,

Becky

PS: If you need me, I will walk with you.