On June 30, 2021, at 4:45 a.m., I woke up to my water breaking 18 days before my due date. Half-asleep and in total shock, I woke my husband, called my doula (who happens to be my mom), and we headed to the hospital. The moment I had been dreaming about for nine months had finally come.
When I was pregnant, I felt strong in every way physically, mentally, spiritually. We had found out we were having a girl, and I had spent months planning for her: the nursery, the name, the outfits, even imagining her wedding day. I felt prepared. I was surrounded by support my husband, our midwifery team, and a therapist who helped me work through anxiety and grief tied to the loss of my dad when I was 12.
Starting at 28 weeks, I met weekly with that therapist, all the way up until the night before I went into labor. I felt ready ready for birth, ready for postpartum, ready to meet the little girl I had already fallen in love with.
When we arrived at the hospital, I wasn’t in active labor yet, but since I had tested positive for Group B Strep, I was admitted to start antibiotics. A quick test confirmed my water had broken. We were having a baby!
Except…I didn’t feel like I was. My body wasn’t contracting yet. We walked the halls, did all the exercises. It took 12 hours before the contractions finally kicked in. My mom arrived, and with her and my husband by my side, I breathed through every wave.
But around midnight, things started to shift. Our baby’s heart rate dropped during each contraction. At 4 a.m., my midwife said she was calling in the OB to take a closer look. I remember suddenly snapping out of “labor land” and whispering to my husband, “Oh no… this is going to end in a c-section.” Minutes later, her heart rate dropped to 34 bpm. Everything went into fast-forward.
Within seconds, the room was full of nurses. “Marin, we’re going to need to go in for a c-section,” my midwife said. This wasn’t the plan, but strangely, I felt calm. I figured I’d be put under general anesthesia, since there wasn’t time for an epidural. But then miraculously an anesthesiologist arrived just in time. He calmly said, “I think I can place the spinal. You can be awake.”
And then, there we were in the OR. My mind raced: Is my baby okay? Am I okay? Will I wake up from this? The fear was more intense than anything I’d felt before. But then my husband appeared next to me, calm and steady, holding my hand.
The doctor began. The anesthesiologist told us, “You’ll meet your baby soon.”
And then I heard the cry.
“That’s our daughter!” I said.
But my midwife laughed, “Marin, it’s a boy!”
Wait. WHAT?
I thought they were joking. But they weren’t. It was a boy. Our anatomy scan had been wrong.
My brain couldn’t keep up. All I could think about was the pink nursery at home, the bows in the closet, the name I’d whispered to my bump for months. Suddenly, I felt like I had given birth to a stranger. I didn’t have a boy’s name. I didn’t know him.
But then they placed him on my chest.
And I did know him. He was mine. He had always been mine.
At 5:00 a.m. on July 1, 2021, I became a mom to Paxton whose name means peace.
Recovery from the c-section hit me hard. I felt physically wrecked. Emotionally, I was still adjusting to the shock of not having the daughter I thought I was carrying. Bringing Paxton into his pink nursery made me feel guilt, grief, and confusion. But slowly, I reminded myself: it was always him.
And I had incredible support my family, friends, and midwives. They showed up for me. When I was diagnosed with postpartum anxiety, they didn’t just say, “Take care.” They called, they checked in, they gave me tools.
When breastfeeding didn’t work and my supply dropped, I grieved that too. I saw consultants, tried everything. But nothing changed. Eventually, with the encouragement of loved ones, I switched to formula. And I finally understood: support is best. Not every mom needs the same plan. We all need the same care.
Now, I’m six months postpartum. I still carry some grief. I still struggle. But I know I’m the right mom for Paxton. I want to advocate for better postpartum care for more stories, more support, more compassion. Not just for me, but for every mom navigating this beautiful, overwhelming, sacred chapter of life.
