Your birth is not a character test.

Many parents approach labor with the idea that birth is something natural. Something the body can, in principle, handle if you just trust it enough. That with the right preparation, breathing, letting go, and control, you can influence how it unfolds.

That idea is understandable. It provides stability in a time of so much uncertainty. It's also not surprising that we're searching for control, for a sense of direction. Pregnancy and birth are big, physical, and intense. It helps to think that there's a key, a way to do it "right."

But it is precisely there that a vulnerable spot arises.

Because when labor doesn't go as hoped, when it doesn't progress, when pain relief is needed, or when medical attention becomes unavoidable, there's a danger that the experience will be interpreted not only medically or practically, but also personally. As if something went wrong. As if you did something wrong. As if your body couldn't handle it. As if you didn't let go enough.

But childbirth isn't a test of character. Your body has nothing to prove.

And that is a heavy burden to bear, especially in a period that is already so vulnerable.

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The myth of the 'strong body'

In recent years, an image has emerged, often very subtly, of what a “strong” birth looks like.

A birth that remains calm. Naturally. Without painkillers. Without intervention. With trust and control, carried by a kind of primal force. Sometimes almost aesthetic: a bath, soft light, silence, surrender.

And so, often without us realizing it, a kind of ideal picture emerges. But this ideal isn't neutral. It forms an invisible standard for what constitutes a "good" or "strong" birth.

But it gives a romanticized and distorted picture of what childbirth is truly like. It primarily presents the beautiful summary, not the harsh reality beneath. This creates unrealistic expectations about how childbirth "should" feel or proceed, and what the body "should" do.

Because if this is the picture of a strong labor, what does it mean if yours goes differently? If you do feel anxious. If you do need pain relief. If it doesn't progress. If medical help arrives.

That doesn't mean your body is failing. Sometimes birth needs support, precisely because nature is powerful, but not infallible.

Yet, it can suddenly feel like your body didn't do something it should have. As if pain relief meant you couldn't endure as well. As if a C-section meant your body failed.

And so space is created for thoughts like:

Why couldn't I just do it? Why did I panic? Why did I need help?

But birth is not a stage on which you have to prove what your body can do.

Because how a birth unfolds says nothing about your character. It says nothing about your courage, your love, your strength, or your ability to be a mother. Birth isn't a personality test. Pain isn't a measure of strength. And precisely because we're so quick to judge birth by that yardstick of strength, something else arises beneath the surface.

Because beneath this performance pressure lies a deeper layer: the emotional reality of birth, with fear, pain, doubt and the moment when it can overwhelm you.

Many parents already carry a sense of anticipation: can I really do this? What if I get scared? After all, giving birth is intense.

That's precisely why preparation can feel so appealing. The idea that if you just learn enough, practice enough, breathe enough, let go enough, you might be able to soften the sharp edges of that experience. That you'll feel less fear, less panic, less overwhelm. It's comforting to think there's some kind of key, and it's precisely that comfort that's often so easily sold.

It is a physical borderline experience, and it is logical that your mind tries to find something to hold on to.

But feelings cannot be completely prepared away.

Fear and pain aren't signs of something going wrong, but a normal part of labor. They're part of the intensity of what's happening, the transition from pregnancy to birth, the fact that your body is doing something bigger than your daily existence.

When you've picked up the message somewhere that a "good" birth is one in which you remain calm and in control, the moment you are afraid can suddenly feel like failure.

Then an inner voice can arise that says: See, I'm not doing it right. I didn't let go enough. I wasn't strong enough.

While those feelings are often precisely what birth is. Not because you're doing anything wrong, but because this is a journey through something enormous.

And perhaps that's one of the most important shifts parents can make: not

The idea that you must avoid fear and pain to do well, but rather allow them to exist. That your humanity doesn't stand in the way of birth, but is part of it.

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What parents actually need

What many parents don't need is another list of things they could have done better. Another retrospective analysis. Another attempt to reduce a vast and complex experience to a few areas for improvement.

Because birth is not a puzzle that you have to solve afterwards.

What parents often do need is something much gentler. Something more human. Permission.

Permission to be afraid, without fear being a sign of failure. Permission to not know, without uncertainty meaning you weren't prepared. Permission to ask for help, without it diminishing your strength.

Because those two can exist side by side. You just have to be human in something great. And in that, you can be supported and carried.

Allowing these natural feelings to arise is often an important part of how you look back on your birth later.

Not because it suddenly becomes easy, but because you don't have to judge yourself while you're in the middle of it.

Fear, pain, doubt, or overwhelm don't mean you're failing. They mean you're experiencing something big. That your body and mind are responding to an intense transition.

And it is precisely when you can give yourself permission to feel what is there that space is created.

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And maybe that's what directing is ultimately all about.

Not about controlling the process. Not about directing the outcome. Not about the perfect scenario where everything goes exactly as you hoped.

But about taking control of your experience.

About feeling the space to take everything that was there seriously. To be able to say: this was intense. This was big. And that doesn't mean there was a failure.

That you don't have to get lost in searching for guilt afterward. Not with yourself, not with your body, not with anyone else. Not with the question: what should I have done differently? But that you can look with gentleness.

That you can allow yourself to let the story exist as it was. With everything that was beautiful, and everything that was difficult. With pride and grief, with gratitude and disappointment. And sometimes all at once.

Not as a judgment, but as part of a human beginning.

Love,

Bobby