A Year Later: The Birth Story I Still Carry in My Heart

It’s been one year to the day since I walked alongside a family through one of the most beautiful, powerful, and deeply human birth experiences of my career—and I still think about it often. In fact, I think about it all the time. Some births settle quietly into your memory, but others carve a space into your heart and live there, pulsing softly in the background of your days. This was one of those births.

It wasn’t the “classic VBAC success” story that many people imagine. It ended, instead, with a repeat cesarean. But that’s not what I remember when I think back on that day. What I remember is the deep calm that filled the room. The unwavering strength of two people leaning on each other and their faith. The way every decision—every single one—was made intentionally, with love, courage, and autonomy. What I remember is the way they gave birth: with presence, with agency, with grace.

There were moments of stillness and reverence, yes—but there was also laughter. I remember the three of us tucked into the tiny hospital bathroom, passing the time by cracking jokes and laughing so hard that our sides ached. I remember the father and I snapping silly photos throughout the experience, knowing that one day they would look back on those pictures and remember not just the intensity of birth, but also the joy and humanity woven into it. There was levity amid the labor, humor woven into the sacredness—because birth holds space for all of it.

I remember the quiet, too. The moments where the room grew still and prayers filled the space. They prayed together often—soft, steady words spoken from the depths of their hearts. Their midwife prayed with them. I prayed with them. We held space not just for a baby to arrive, but for peace, strength, and clarity to guide each decision. And through every choice, they stayed anchored—anchored to each other, to their faith, and to what felt right for them.

There were decisions to be made—some easy, some hard. We had honest, sometimes emotional conversations. Questions were asked, answers were considered, and time was always taken. Nothing was rushed. Even in the midst of things unfolding around them—monitors beeping, plans shifting, options being offered—there was a calm, almost sacred pause before each step forward. The medical team respected their process completely. The OB and nurses gave them space to think and to choose. Their midwife stayed by their side, gently guiding, never pushing.

Even the interventions that once held fear now held meaning. The Foley catheter, which had been a traumatic part of her first birth, was different this time. She knew what to expect. She chose when and how it would happen. It was performed by someone she trusted. It was still intense, but it was hers—a decision made on her terms, in her own time.

They leaned on one another through it all. He held her hand through contractions. She leaned into his chest when she needed grounding. They whispered prayers and reassurances, sometimes with tears, sometimes with laughter. It was love in its rawest, truest form—partnership in motion.

And then, when the time came, they chose a repeat cesarean. It wasn’t a decision made out of fear or disappointment. It was a choice born of deep knowing—of listening to their hearts, their bodies, and their baby. And when their baby arrived, the room was filled with peace. Not just because of the safe arrival, but because they had walked this journey fully awake, fully present, and fully in charge.

As a doula, I often dream of experiences like this—where families are not just supported, but empowered. Where they are surrounded by care that honors their pace, their voice, their faith. Where the birth unfolds as theirs—not dictated by systems or expectations, but shaped by their choices and guided by love. This was one of those dream experiences. And it has stayed with me ever since.

A year later, I still think about that bathroom laughter. I still think about the prayers whispered in the quiet moments. I still see the father’s grin as we snapped another photo, and the mother’s strength as she took a deep breath and asked another thoughtful question. I still feel the calm that wrapped around the room, even as things shifted and decisions needed to be made.

And more than anything, I still feel the awe I felt that day—the awe of witnessing what happens when people are trusted to lead their own story. When they are given the space to pause, to pray, to laugh, to cry, and to choose.

One year later, this birth is still with me. It always will be. It is a constant reminder of the power of autonomy, the beauty of faith, the strength of partnership, and the deep honor it is to hold space for a family as they write their own story.

Amy Silva, Founder of The Collaborative Doula Collective