Pregnancy was a dream for me—smooth, uneventful, and filled with gratitude. I cherished every kick, every milestone, and every quiet moment leading up to the arrival of my little one. But nothing could have prepared me for the intensity of the night of August 19th, 2024.

Because it was my first baby, I tried very hard to be prepared, but nothing could have truly prepared me for the experience. It was a whirlwind of shock, exhaustion, relief, and an overwhelming surge of love. I went to bed at 8 PM feeling completely normal—no warning signs, no Braxton Hicks contractions my whole pregnancy, just another night of waiting for my baby’s arrival. But at 10 PM, I woke up with a sharp, unmistakable pain, and within seconds, I realised my waters had broken, I was 39 weeks and 4 days pregnant.

Still convinced I was in early labour, I decided to take things slowly. I lit a few candles, stepped into the shower, and washed my hands, knowing it might be days before I had another peaceful moment to myself. But as the warm water ran over me, my contractions intensified—fast. Within minutes, they were coming just two minutes apart.

By the time I was dressed and made my way to the living room, the contractions were relentless, arriving every minute. I woke my husband, and in that instant, we both knew—this was happening, and fast.

The drive to Camperdown Hospital in Sydney felt endless. Each contraction sent waves of pressure through my body, and I fought the overwhelming urge to push. From the start, all I made sure I remembered was to breathe deeply in the car—still breathing deeply and slowly—which made things 100 times easier than it would have been if I wasn’t concentrating on my breathing. By the time we pulled up to the emergency entrance, I could barely move. Dropping to my knees on the pavement, I was consumed by the pain, still trying to focus on my deep breathing. My husband scrambled to get a wheelchair, and in what felt like a blur, we rushed into the birth centre.

The moment I got to my room at 11:30 PM, they checked me straight away—I was 8 CM dilated. I had only been in labour for 1.5 hours, so things were moving fast. I asked for a bath, as I had always imagined labouring in water, hoping it would bring some relief. And for a while, it did. The warm water cradled me, easing the intensity, and I focused on deep, steady breaths, trying to stay present.

Then, this weird shift happened. I felt my body slow down, like my labour was stalling. My contractions were only 10 seconds long, which didn’t give my body time to push. I was trying to push with the contractions, but I didn’t have enough momentum to make it work.

At 3 AM on the 20th of August, after what felt like both an eternity and the blink of an eye, I gave birth to my beautiful son. The moment he was placed in my arms, nothing else mattered—not the exhaustion, not the intensity of the contractions, not even the third-degree tear I had just endured.

Was the third-degree recovery hard? Yes! Harder than the labour and delivery itself! But would I do it again? Absolutely. Because no matter what, the reward at the end was worth every ounce of pain. And yes, even the stitches.

I went into theatre for stitches, but before they took me, we managed to have some skin-to-skin time. My husband took over and held our son for skin-to-skin for some time, while I was being stitched up. When I came out of surgery, I finally had more precious moments with my baby. We spent three days in the hospital, surrounded by incredible midwives who offered endless support and care. There was a nurse named Annie who I really connected with, and I hope she’s doing well.

Now, six months later, I reflect on this journey every day. Motherhood has been the most beautiful, raw, and life-altering experience of my life. It has tested me, strengthened me, and taught me resilience in ways I never imagined. To all the mothers reading this—whether you’ve already walked this path or are preparing to—you are incredible. No matter how your birth unfolds, remember that you are strong, and you are not alone. We’re all in this together.

This is just the beginning of the story.

Sophia xx