My Dream Birth and the Day I Surrendered

“It Didn’t Happen the Way I Dreamed, But It Brought Her to Me”

I want to begin by setting the scene, because before anything unraveled—before the fear, the hospital lights, and the hurried voices—there was trust. Deep, unwavering, all-consuming trust. For nine months, I poured myself into preparing for birth, not just physically but mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. I practiced hypnobirthing daily, whispered affirmations into quiet moments, stretched, breathed, and softened into the experience ahead of me. I even sat in our ice bath for a minute at a time, teaching myself how to meet intensity without fear, how to breathe through discomfort and welcome sensation instead of resisting it. I truly believed I was ready. I had done everything I possibly could to bring on labour naturally and to create the birth I had dreamed of.

And yet, in the space of a single week, it felt as though that entire world collapsed beneath me.

Looking back now, I can see how much pressure I had unknowingly placed on that moment. The need for it to unfold in a certain way felt so important, so aligned, that when things began to shift, it was earth-shattering.

The Dream

My birth plan was never just a plan—it was a vision I had nurtured and brought to life in my mind long before the day arrived. I dreamed of a home birth, of going into early labour in our studio, a space that had become my sanctuary. I imagined moving through each contraction slowly and instinctively, stretching on my mat or swaying on the birth ball while Kane supported me. He had even set up a birth sling, and our doula had brought over a beautiful pool with soft lights glowing beneath the water, just like the images I had saved over and over again on Pinterest. I had created a small altar in the space, filled with candles, fairy lights, affirmation cards, and a birth mala made with love from our friends.

The atmosphere felt magical, almost sacred. Most nights throughout September, we would go down there together, and even through the waves of Braxton Hicks, I remember thinking, "my body is doing something", and I could feel myself getting closer.

Kane had been creating a two-hour sound journey, music designed to hold me and surround me as I moved and breathed through labour. I fell in love with that space so deeply that I could see my birth unfolding there, undisturbed, held, safe, and entirely led by my body.

The First Shift

When contractions first began, something shifted in a way I hadn’t expected. I realised that I didn’t actually need the lights or the carefully curated environment, because birth was something happening within me. It was internal, instinctive, and deeply primal. I could feel myself closing my eyes, dropping into that birthing space where the outside world softened and faded away. In that moment, I understood that I could birth anywhere, because what mattered most was my ability to surrender to my body.

So when the contractions slowed, I stayed anchored in that belief, trusting that my body would begin labour naturally and reminding myself that I was safe to wait.

The Waiting

As the weeks passed—40, 41, then 42—I continued to trust. I declined sweeps and interventions because I believed deeply in my body’s ability to do this on its own timeline. My community midwife understood me well and respected my wishes, which allowed me to feel held in that decision. But after 42 weeks, my care was transferred to the hospital, and something in me already knew that this shift would be significant. The environment felt different, and I couldn’t ignore the sense that I was moving further away from the experience I had envisioned.

The Week Everything Changed

At 42 weeks and 3 days, I agreed to go in for monitoring, wanting reassurance that my baby was safe. We chose to go in on a quiet Sunday evening, thinking it might feel calmer, and I’m glad we did. Even so, the moment I stepped into that hospital environment, I could feel the change in my body. My blood pressure rose, not because something was wrong, but because I didn’t feel relaxed there. The CTG machine was loud and intrusive, and although one of the midwives was kind, the overall atmosphere unsettled me. We were told everything looked okay and were asked to return the following day for a scan.

On the drive home, however, we received a call saying they hadn’t seen as many heart rate accelerations as they would have liked and wanted me to come back in. By this time we was nearly already home, I was overwhelmed. I hadn’t eaten, I felt shaky, and my nervous system was completely flooded. I remember crying, knowing how much I didn’t want to go back into that environment. Instead, we decided to book a private scan the next day, somewhere we both felt would allow us to stay calmer and more grounded.

The next day unfolded in a surreal way. I went for acupuncture in the morning, still holding onto hope that my body might begin labour naturally, while Kane had a tooth extracted—life continuing in its strange, ordinary way alongside something so significant. That afternoon, we went for the scan. The sonographer was quiet, and there was a heaviness in the room that I couldn’t ignore. When he told us there were no visible fluid pockets around the baby, everything seemed to stop.

The Letting Go

We left, processing the information in silence, and on the drive home we made the decision to pack our bags and go straight to the hospital. Not the one I had feared, but Hinchingbrooke, where the energy felt calmer and more supportive.

I am so grateful we made that choice, because from that moment, my care shifted into a space where I felt more held, even as the situation became more serious.

Wednesday passed in a blur of scans, conversations, and being told about some pretty serious risks that we had to take into account - No amniotic fluid, calcified placenta and being 43 weeks is classed as a risk by the hostpital. I accepted a sweep, still hoping labour might start. But by Thursday, at 43 weeks pregnant, it had all caught up with me.

I woke up feeling upset and stressed, already grieving the birth I had imagined.

That day is still a bit of a blur, but I remember Kane encouraging me to just make a decision and after a bit of a heated debate, me agreeing and saying, “Lets just go straight to the top of the ladder and talk about a c-section first, and work our way back?”

And then came the words that will stay with me forever. Being told that your baby might not survive labour is the most sickening thing you can ever hear. In that moment, everything else fell away. I didn’t care about the plan anymore. I just needed her to be safe.

My first lesson as a mother - "it doesn't matter what i want anymore, its about what she needs"

We booked the c-section for the next morning.

Goodbye to the Dream

That night, we went down to the studio one last time. We lit a candle, stood in that space that had held so much hope, and we cried. We said goodbye to the dream, to the birth we had imagined, to all of it. And we let it go.

The Birth

At 5am the next morning, I woke with a strong feeling that we needed to go in. We arrived expecting a calm morning and a c-section later that day, but as soon as I was hooked up to the CTG, baby’s heart rate was dropping. Slowly, steadily, enough that more staff came into the room. And then, around 9.40am, everything changed.

The nurse held my hands, looked me in the eyes and calmy said "Bianca, we’re taking you in for an emergency - right now.”

That was it.

Everything moved so fast. Clothes off, gown on, right there. Kane and Sarah were whisked away to get changed, and I was walking barefoot down the corridor with a nurse on each arm, feeling like a deer in headlights. I just kept thinking, *at least I have my headphones*, like that was the one thing I could hold onto.

In theatre, it was chaos—but organised chaos. People everywhere, all doing their jobs. I had absolutely no idea what anyone was saying to me, if I’m honest. I was just nodding, trying to stay with my breath. Then I realised the headphones I’d borrowed had that setting where if someone talks, the music pauses and lets their voice through—which felt so frustrating because all I wanted was to disappear into the music and block everything else out.

I sat on the table, had the epidural, lay down, and felt my body go numb. The curtain went up, the shaking started, and I could feel the tugging and strange sensations. I remember feeling so emotional in that moment. Kane held my hand and told me he loved me, that I was safe. He managed to put our wedding song on—*Hare Krishna*—and for one brief, beautiful moment, I imagined myself walking down the aisle, the happiest day of my life, surrounded by everyone we love.

And then, suddenly, there was her cry.

The relief was monumental. Just hearing her, knowing she was okay.

The First Moments

Kane cut the cord, and she was placed on my chest almost immediately. I whispered to her that I was there, that she was safe, that mummy loves you. It calmed something in me instantly. Those first moments weren’t what I had imagined, but they were real, and they were ours. Even as I lay there for what felt like forever being stitched back together, holding her grounded me in a way nothing else could.

Afterwards, I remember being wheeled out, seeing my mum and dad in the corridor, and feeling so proud that I had my baby on my chest. Back in the room, it was just me, Kane, Sarah, and our baby girl for those first couple of hours. It felt like a little bubble. I don’t remember much of what was said, but I remember the feeling. I kept saying, “This is wild. That was wild.” Because it was. Completely, undeniably wild.

For a while, that’s how I told the story. I spoke about the amazing team, how supportive Sarah was, how our wedding song played, how she cried as soon as she came out, how she was safe. And all of that is true.

But it’s not the whole truth.

The other half of the story is that it was terrifying, overwhelming, and at times deeply traumatic. There was pressure from every direction, opinions coming from family, professionals, and the wider world, all telling me what I should or shouldn’t do.—some telling me to be induced, others telling me to wait. My intuition, which had once felt so strong, became clouded and exhausted under the weight of it all. The trust I had spent nine months building felt shaken in a matter of days.

Over time, I have realised that both of these truths can exist together. The beauty and the pain, the love and the fear, the empowerment and the loss—they are all part of the same story. Birth is not just soft and gentle; it is intense, unpredictable, and transformative. It is an initiation, a crossing of a threshold where you are met with both your deepest vulnerability and your greatest strength. It is the place where deep pain and deep love collide, and somehow, both are necessary.

When I look back now, I no longer feel the need to soften the story or reshape it into something easier to hold. It was wild, in every sense of the word. And even now, months later, I am still learning how to carry all of it—the dream I had, the way it unfolded, the grief, the love, and the lessons I had to earn along the way. Because all of it belongs, and all of it brought me to her.