At 4 a.m. on a Saturday I woke to go to the bathroom and noticed a trickle of fluid down my legs. The amniotic sac had begun to leak. It wasn’t the dramatic gush I experienced with my first birth, but after reading countless books about labour I knew water breaking can be subtle. I felt a surge of excitement—finally the baby was near. Being a few days overdue had felt like teasing the promised land: so close, yet not quite there.
There were no intense contractions with that initial trickle, so I put on a sanitary pad and tried to sleep, though true sleep had become rare in those final weeks. Nights meant turning, wrestling with an overactive bladder, dealing with heartburn, and surrendering to the day exhausted yet persistent.
After two very different previous births—one chaotic and the other full of prayers—I was determined to keep this third labour as calm as possible.
I read Jackie Mize’s Supernatural Childbirth and prayed the accompanying prayers, hoping for a peaceful, less painful delivery. I also joined pregnancy apps like BabyCentre and another whose name I can’t recall; they felt like supportive online communities where I could compare notes with women due around the same time.
I tried many of the usual remedies. I drank raspberry leaf tea, which I was told can help speed up labour; the taste wasn’t memorable, but I kept sipping. I danced around the living room at night because friends swore movement would help. I tried other home remedies and suggestions too—some sensible, some silly. None produced the baby immediately.
So when the morning trickle returned, hope felt tangible. At dawn I prepared a simple lunch of rice and fish stew while timing mild contractions. Around 11 a.m. I called my kind friend Jeena to take the girls so Mr. N and I could head to the hospital.
When Jeena arrived and took the children, I found myself dancing again—this time in gratitude that a trustworthy friend would babysit. Finding reliable help had been a real blessing, and I felt relieved and thankful.
Mr. N and I drove to the hospital in Saint Paul, Minnesota. The car’s motion intensified my contractions. We arrived around 2 p.m. and went to the birth centre on one of the upper floors.
The labour room felt welcoming—more like a small hotel room than a clinical ward. I had the room to myself: a small adjustable bed, a wall-mounted TV, a computer for staff use, a private toilet, and a large window overlooking the city. The hospital smell was minimal, which helped my nerves.
I changed into a hospital gown and the nurse performed the usual checks, offering an epidural. I declined—uncomfortable with the idea of being numb from the waist down. A cervical exam revealed I was two centimetres dilated, which was a bit discouraging since I’d hoped to be further along.
The nurse encouraged walking, so with my large belly and hospital gown I paced the corridors with Mr. N at my side. The movement seemed to help. After an hour I was four centimetres dilated, and an hour later six centimetres. The nurse who had accompanied me earlier finished her shift and a calm, pregnant nurse took over. At this stage the contractions became much stronger and I could no longer walk through them. I found myself sweating and vocalizing through the intensity.
The nurse stayed close, holding my hand and applying steady, reassuring pressure as each contraction peaked. Gospel music helped focus my mind. Mr. N sat on a recliner nearby, rubbing my back between contractions and fighting sleep from a long day at work.
As labour progressed to nine centimetres, care was handed to another nurse who, though stern in appearance, was equally compassionate. At about 2 a.m. she sensed the baby’s imminent arrival. I shouted that the baby was coming. After a final check confirmed I was fully dilated, the doctor arrived and with one strong push I welcomed a healthy baby girl weighing 7 pounds 13 ounces—dark-skinned and with a full head of hair. She was placed immediately on my chest for skin-to-skin bonding.
Mr. N cut the umbilical cord. We prayed and thanked God for this beautiful gift. Watching him present during the birth was a priceless and deeply moving experience for both of us.
I was moved to a postpartum room similar to the delivery suite. I was given a menu and the freedom to order meals throughout the day, which I did eagerly every couple of hours. Food was comforting after the intensity of labour.
Two days later, after routine checks by the medical team, we were discharged. I left the hospital seated in a wheelchair, holding my newborn and feeling grateful for the journey.
I’ve shared these pregnancy and birth stories because each experience is unique. No two pregnancies or deliveries are the same; every pregnancy brings its own surprises and lessons. Despite the challenges, childbirth remains a profoundly beautiful experience. Thank you for reading.
If you’ve followed my pregnancy diaries, you can revisit them in the series listed below:
- My First Pregnancy: First Trimester
- My First Pregnancy: Second Trimester
- My First Pregnancy: Third Trimester
- Tasting Childbirth for the First Time
- My First Hours As A Mother
- My Miscarriage Story: The Baby I Never Had
- A Difficult Second Childbirth
- My Overdue Pregnancy Story
I plan to write next for those trying to conceive. If you have a personal conception or pregnancy story to share—especially one that took years of trying—please email us. Personal stories carry power and can comfort or inspire someone else. Have a fulfilling week!