C-Section: The birth of a mother

We often talk about childbirth as an ideal moment—dreamed of, even scripted in advance. But some births don’t follow the expected storyline. Some unfold differently.

Today, I want to talk about a choice we rarely name out loud. A choice that is neither an escape nor a failure, but a decision rooted in love, clarity… and immense strength.

This text is a story. My story. That of a scheduled cesarean, filled with a thousand emotions. A birth that didn’t follow the script. A true upheaval. Because every birth deserves to be told—especially when it doesn’t look like the one we had imagined.

Trigger Warning: This narrative touches upon themes of high-risk pregnancy and scheduled cesarean delivery. Some descriptions may evoke sensitive memories for those who have experienced a challenging pregnancy.​

A pregnancy under strain

Even before considering childbirth, I was consumed by the fear of losing this baby. A nearly irrational fear, yet fueled by countless testimonies, videos on social media, podcasts, and articles I read incessantly.​

Each trip to the bathroom was a trial. I held my breath, eyes cast downward. I was afraid. Afraid that it would all end. Afraid I wouldn't recover. I felt as though I was walking a tightrope, day after day, never truly able to exhale.​

This anxiety then transformed into another fear: the fear of childbirth. As the months passed, I felt increasingly overwhelmed by the impending event. Once again, I spent hours reading, watching, informing myself... thinking I was reassuring myself, but only deepening my stress. Each dramatic account clung to me. Every story of tearing, suffering, obstetric violence became a looming threat.​

And there was also this estrangement from my body. My past. For a long time, I struggled with eating disorders. My relationship with my body was complex, conflicted, sometimes violent. I never truly trusted it. I mistreated it, ignored it, judged it. So, when thinking about childbirth, this fear resurfaced: what if my body failed me? What if it wasn't capable? What if, because of me, this lack of trust, I endangered my baby?​

This thought haunted me. More than the pain. More than complications. I feared I wouldn't be able to protect my child. It was this deep, visceral fear that led me to seek help. And it was by articulating all this that I began to consider a cesarean.​

The choice of cesarean

I eventually saw a psychologist because I had no respite. Because I wanted to give birth, but I was afraid to do so. And it was by listening to my anxieties, by welcoming them, that I made this choice: to have a cesarean. A well-considered decision, yet surrounded by so much shame.​

We often hear of a "convenience cesarean," as if this birth path were simpler or less taxing. Yet, behind this term lies a very different reality: that of a birth through a delicate surgical intervention.​

The judgment was real. Certain looks. Certain phrases. "Oh, you didn't want to try a more natural birth?" As if I had given up before even trying. As if I had chosen the easy way out. But no one saw the turmoil inside.​

I chose the cesarean because it was my way of taking back control. Because I needed to map out this birth, to make it less frightening, to set a framework around what seemed to me a chasm.​

The meeting

I arrived at the clinic in the morning. My appointment was at 10 a.m. Everything seemed calm, almost routine—but inside, it was a whirlwind. I was tense, stressed, a bit elsewhere. It's a strange feeling to know you're about to give birth in a few hours, without surprise, without urgency, yet with that immense unknown remaining.​

Everyone was kind. The welcome, the care, the preparations—I was well surrounded. And yet, as I entered the operating room, emotion welled up. I was shaken. It's an impressive space, cold, organized. I heard the sounds of instruments, voices around me, the confident movements of the caregivers settling in. They placed the drape to prevent me from seeing what was happening. But you still feel it. The body knows.​

I couldn't calm down. Then, a caregiver simply spoke to me. He had been there from the start, like the others, but he found the words. He looked at me, took me seriously, offered me an anchor. It wasn't much, but at that moment, it was everything. It soothed me.​

In my earbuds, there was Nujabes, the playlist I had chosen to accompany me. And in the distance, a small square window framed a piece of the world—behind it, my husband's face. His gaze, his eyes filled with emotion, were fixed on mine. Seeing him there, in that tiny square, moved me. I clung to him, to that look that told me everything without a word: that I was strong, that I would make it, that our son was being born.​

Then, everything unfolded. The movements around me became swift, precise, coordinated.​

You don't feel pain, but you feel. The pulling, the internal movements, the breath that suspends. I remember the warmth in my belly, that very particular smell. Then, suddenly, a stronger pressure. And the cry.​

I heard it before I saw it. My baby. My son. He was there. He had crossed that threshold I feared so much. And most importantly, he was well.​

When he was born, I couldn't cry. It was too immense, too quick. They placed him against me for a few minutes of skin-to-skin. I still remember that moment by heart, and yet, I felt myself drifting. It was time for the dad to meet his son, while I went to the recovery room. I didn't quite understand what was happening, and then I remember fighting against fatigue, to recover faster, to be able to breastfeed, to just be close to him. That moment felt like an eternity. An unjust prolongation of the wait.​

But when I finally had him against me, everything froze. I breathed in his scent. His soft skin. His head against my chest. And I knew I had done what was right. We never left each other again, glued to one another, day and night.​

The Scar: A Line on the skin

I learned to live with the scar very quickly. That fine, horizontal line. This new mark. I always took the time to gently massage it with Mega Oil—even before I knew I’d one day join this beautiful adventure two years later. I understood it was a passage. A sign. A bridge between the body I had before, and the one I now inhabit. It tells a story that, until now, I was the only one to fully know.

And yet, I never really complained about that scar. It wasn’t particularly painful: I was walking the next day, my body quickly returned to how it had been, and breastfeeding my son gave me such strength that everything else felt secondary.
Still, I sometimes wonder if I buried the pain. If I minimized it. As if I hadn’t suffered enough to speak about it.

I never experienced contractions. I don’t know—maybe I never will—what it feels like to wait for hours, to push, to go through that physical and emotional storm of vaginal birth. So I stayed quiet. Carrying a lingering sense of shame. As if my body hadn’t quite completed the feat. As if I needed to prove myself more to legitimize my pain.

What I wish I had heard

I wish someone had told me that fear is not a weakness. That it deserves to be heard, understood, welcomed—and never dismissed.

I wish someone had reminded me that a cesarean—even when chosen, even when scheduled—is still a real birth. A monumental, intense act that requires courage and trust.

That it’s possible to ask for skin-to-skin in the recovery room. That it’s possible—and essential—to imagine and plan for that first meeting, even if it doesn’t follow the usual script.

I wish I’d been better prepared for postpartum. For the slowness of the body, the wave of emotions, and the absolute need not to carry it all alone. Because we need help. Time. Words. Softness.

I wish I had known that physical pain can sometimes hide other wounds—deeper, more invisible. And that those too deserve to be acknowledged and healed.

And more than anything, I wish someone had told me that my son would be healthy. That this choice—even if it didn’t feel like one—would still make me the best mother I could be for my Jil.

That for him, I would find the strength to put my eating disorder behind me. That I would slowly rebuild trust in my body. And that I would eventually learn to love it—for what it had done. For what it had carried, delivered, and brought into my life.

Afterward

It may sound strange, but today, I think I could imagine another birth. Maybe even a vaginal one. Because becoming a mother taught me just how powerful I am. Just how much my body knows—despite everything—and how capable it is of wonder.

Maybe you’re standing at that same crossroads, where fear and desire intersect, where vulnerability meets strength. Maybe you’re considering a cesarean, or maybe yours is already behind you—and you still carry its echoes, its scars, visible or not.

This text doesn’t offer ready-made answers. It’s a space to let things overflow, to honor what you’ve been through—or what you’re about to go through.
There are a thousand ways to give life. A thousand ways to love. A thousand paths to become a mother.

You don’t have anything to prove. You are not less strong, less of a mother, or less loving if your birth looks different. Your birth will be unique. And it will carry your courage—even if it speaks in whispers.

And if one day you choose a cesarean, know this:
You have every right to be proud.
Immensely proud.