The Missing Story: In Search of Positive Birth Narratives

Recently, I came across a post that made me blink and re-read several times. The author was sharing their difficult pregnancy experience and earnestly calling for less glamorization of pregnancy and birth, arguing that we needed more "real" stories about how hard it can be. As someone who spent my young adult life absolutely terrified of pregnancy - largely because of the negative stories I had deeply internalized - I couldn't help but wonder: aren't these already the dominant narratives?

From casual conversations with strangers, to popular media - stories of trauma and terror around birth seem to be all I hear. Even when depicting an "uncomplicated" delivery, movies and TV shows present it as a harrowing ordeal with panicked races to the hospital, a woman screaming in agony, and the inevitable medical drama that unfolds. These portrayals reflect our broader cultural shift toward viewing pregnancy and birth as medical conditions to be managed rather than natural processes that occasionally require intervention.

These stories 100% had an influence on my own experience. By the time I was expecting my first, I had consumed so many horror stories that fear became my constant companion. I rolled over and accepted whatever the doctor suggested, I planned for the worse, I spent months dreading the inevitable end of my condition and planned for a highly medicated experience to numb me out of it. Despite having what most would consider an "easy" pregnancy physically, it was emotionally awful, thanks in part to the endless horror stories women felt they MUST share with me.

I'm not sure why we do this to each other, maybe it's a way to help us process our own pain, but I tell you right now, recounting your emergency C-section and hemorrhage that needed a transfusion is NOT at all what a first time mom wants to hear in the waiting room when she is 30 weeks pregnant. When I finally went into labor, I had accumulated so much fear that my birth experience absolutely DID become traumatic, harrowing, and agonizing.

During my second pregnancy, I made a conscious choice to do things differently. I sought out positive birth stories, read books like "Childbirth Without Fear," and immersed myself in perspectives that framed birth as a natural process our bodies are designed to handle. I connected with midwives who saw birth not as a medical emergency waiting to happen, but as a profound life event that sometimes needs medical support. The difference this made was striking - not just emotionally, but physically too.

My subsequent births were transformative experiences. Without the weight of accumulated fear, my body knew exactly what to do. These births weren't just "manageable" - they were empowering. So much so that after my third birth, I remember thinking, "Why isn't THIS the story we're telling?"

This realization fundamentally changed how I approach writing about pregnancy and birth in my own work. As an author, I recognized the power and responsibility of storytelling. If the stories we consume shape our expectations and experiences so profoundly, then we desperately in need of more narratives that show the full spectrum of birth - including the positive, empowering experiences that are equally "real" but rarely shared in popular culture.

In my novels, I deliberately wove in three distinct birth stories, each serving to illuminate different aspects of what birth can be. The first appears at the opening of my second book, where we meet our protagonists - healers who also serve as midwives. Through their calm, competent presence, readers witness a peaceful first birth. The setting is in a quiet cottage late at night. There is no screaming in agony - just a woman working with her body, supported by caring midwives to bring her child into the world.

The second birth I chose to portray was more complex - a breech presentation. But rather than using it as a vehicle for drama and fear, I showed how skilled practitioners can handle such variations with confidence. The scene demonstrates that even when birth deviates from the "ideal," it doesn't have to become an emergency. This was particularly important to me because our current medical system often presents any deviation from standard position as a crisis requiring surgical intervention.

The final birth scene I included serves as the epilogue to the entire story, and it deliberately confronts our modern medicalized approach to birth. The laboring woman faces pressure to birth according to others' rules rather than following her body's wisdom. When she finally gets the support she needs and the freedom to birth on her own terms, the experience transforms from traumatic to triumphant. This scene particularly speaks to how our current birth culture often creates the very trauma it claims to want to prevent.

Throughout these narratives, I also portrayed pregnant characters simply living their lives - experiencing both the challenges and joys of pregnancy while continuing to be active participants in their world. They aren't defined solely by their pregnant state, nor are they portrayed as invalids or victims of their condition.

My hope is that these stories offer readers a different framework for thinking about birth - one that acknowledges its intensity while also recognizing its potential for empowerment. Because sometimes the stories we tell become the futures we create, and I want to create a future where women approach birth with confidence rather than terror, and don't make family planning choices simply out of fear.