They say labor starts with a contraction. Mine started with a lesson in surrender.
Let me take you back to my beautiful, unexpected birth experience; one that went nothing like I had planned. And honestly? That’s the beauty of it.
Because sometimes, when things don’t go our way, they lead us exactly where we need to be.
(Just so you know, I had planned for a 100% natural, unmedicated birth. No interventions, no meds…just my body, my breath, and the baby.)
But birth, like life, rarely follows the script.
And what unfolded was not just the story of my son being born - but the story of me learning to let go.
It was June 2025, and the South of France had turned into a furnace. We were in the middle of a heatwave, and I - forty-one weeks pregnant - was slowly melting into a very hormonal puddle of discomfort 🫠
The baby, apparently on Mediterranean time, was in no rush to make his grand entrance. And I? I was swollen, sweaty, and let’s be honest: I’m starting to get reallyyyy uncomfortable.
And cranky 😝
They don't warn you enough about this stage—the one where your due date is a fuzzy suggestion and you're trapped in a strange in-between place, somewhere between not-yet and any-moment-now. It's a strange world, this end-of-pregnancy waiting zone.
A world where time slows down, conversations fade into background noise, and all your thoughts orbit one singular question: When?
My body, in its infinite wisdom, had already started rehearsing. For two weeks, I experienced painless contractions; a gentle whisper from within saying, We’re getting ready.
These ‘’pre labor’’ contractions were only adding to my excitement of going into labor at any minute.
I remained excited for exactly fourteen more days.
And at every check-up, my cervix played a game of hide-and-seek.
The first time my midwife checked, her forehead wrinkled in concentration.
“Hmm,” she murmured. “I can’t find it.”
“Find what?” I asked, hopeful. “It’s dilated though, right?”
She shook her head gently. “Your cervix is still posterior. I can’t really reach it.”
Oh.
But, ever the optimist, she assured me that things could shift at any moment. Bodies have their own tempo. Cervixes are shy creatures, sometimes.
I smiled, nodded, and left with a list of natural induction tricks: spicy food, nipple stimulation, sex, walks on uneven curbs, deep squats, primrose oil… I became a devoted student of every method known to midwifery and Tiktok alike.
Two days later, contractions were still painless, I had ticked off every item on the labor-induction menu, and I arrived at my check-up with renewed hope. This time? Surely something.
“You’re still very posterior,” she said. “Not open yet.”
That’s when the word induction came up for the first time. And not just in theory. If nothing happened naturally by Friday, we’d head to the hospital to help things along.
She explained the options: synthetic oxytocin, a balloon, or prostaglandin pills. The first option felt too strong, like forcing my body into something it wasn’t ready for. The second felt too invasive.
But the pills? They were made from hormones my body already produced. It felt gentler, more like encouragement than pressure.
That, I could get on board with, even if I had hoped to give birth 100% naturally, in my own time.
The induction
We are Friday morning and nothing of what I tried has triggered labor yet. With a mix of disappointment for labor having not started naturally and an excitement that I would give birth soon, I go to the hospital to get induced.
The hospital induction room was quiet, small and private - It felt more like a little hotel room than a medical space: soft lighting, closed door, a quiet sense of waiting.
At 10:00 a.m., I took the first prostaglandin pill.
“You’ll get one every two hours, up to eight,” the midwife explained. “Sometimes labor starts after two or three. Sometimes it takes all eight.”
“And if it doesn’t work after eight?” I asked.
“We begin another round of eight.”
Tim and I exchanged a look. Okay then. Let’s start.
We settled in. Pulled out the Yatzee game. Ate snacks. Time passed in a blur of dice and small talk.
And there, in the afternoon, in the middle of a winning streak (on my end, hehe), I hear a woman who’s also induced in the hallway. I hear her screams.
And my whole body got covered in shivers. Her screams were straight out of an horror movie; super high pitch, uncontrollable, loud, and so, so scared. It stopped me right in my tracks as I was about to through another game of dice.
I look at Tim and say ‘What is THAT?´ - shocked.
‘’She must be at 10 cm, ready to give birth’’ I say, trying to make sense of the intensity and how scared these screams sounded.
Moments later, a midwife entered our room. I couldn’t help myself. “That woman… was she pushing the baby out?”
The midwife gave a small, almost apologetic smile. “No,” she said. “She’s at 3 centimeters.”
I stared at her. Three?
And just like that, doubt crept in. My quiet, confident determination started wobbling on its feet. Could I really do this without pain relief?
“She came hoping for a completely pain-free birth, with an epidural,” the midwife adds gently. “She doesn’t want to experience pain at all, so even a bit feels unbearable—she hasn’t prepared for it.”
I thank her for the information and take a moment to find my footing again.
I breathe. I remember my body. I remember why I’m doing this.
And slowly, I find my way back to myself.
(but holly molly it took me a while to do that).
8 pills later… no contractions
Friday evening, nothing much has happened.
A midwife comes to examine the state of my cervix and, as always with this exam, I’m full of hope that she’ll say, “You’re dilating - your baby will be here soon!”
But instead, I think I’m dreaming when I hear, “The cervix is still posterior… I can feel the space of about half a finger.”
Half a finger?! After 8 pills of this powerful inducing drug?
I go to bed hoping that maybe - just maybe - something will still happen during the night.
Round 2
We start another round of pills on the Saturday morning, the midwife ensuring us that it happens sometimes, that some women need another round to get things moving.
She nicely offers to do some acupuncture on me to help things moving. I accept gladly, pleasantly surprised to be offered this kind of therapy in such a traditional hospital setting.
Time passes, and I try to relax.
At the same time, I start wondering: would there be a subconscious belief, something in me, that is maybe afraid of the birth and that is delaying this process? I know about the power of the mind on the body, could my mind be THAT strong to delay birth to happen?
Tim goes away for a few hours to run some errands (as not much was happening yet) and I call my good friend
Alex, another chronic illness survivor, who specializes in faster EFT. We get to talking and I start getting emotional: yes, a part of me IS AFRAID of giving birth.
Afraid that my body won’t be able to take it, afraid that I might not even survive it.
From where does this fear come from? I’m not sure.
Perhaps the fact that since I was young, every medical procedure has turned into a disaster, to the point that an antibiotic left me crippled for years.
Alex helps me voice my fears, and after a few rounds of tapping, I feel a huge release from my body.
Contractions start
Finallyyyyyy – after 36 hours of induction, I feel contractions getting stronger.
Not painful yet, but enough to stop talking when they arrive. The monitor next to me shows them raising and falling .
Progress. Finally.
Later that evening, another check: “A finger and a half,” the midwife announced.
At this point, I could only laugh. At how long this was taking. At how much my body was teaching me about patience I never asked to learn.
I go to bed, and suddenly, as I was trying to fall asleep..
POP.
It echoed through my whole body - audible, visceral, unmistakably real.
I sat up, eyes wide. “Did you hear that?” I asked Tim.
“Hear what?” he replied, half-asleep.
“I think my water just broke.”
He raised an eyebrow. “No it didn’t.”
Excuse me?
I stood up and a warm trickle confirmed that yes, in fact, it did. But Tim, bless his beautiful heart, had heard me say this is it one too many times over the last few weeks. False hope fatigue is real.
A midwife we hadn’t met yet walked in, checked the fluid. “It is amniotic fluid. Your water did break.”
I leapt into her arms. Literally. She laughed, probably surprised to be embraced by a leaking, euphoric pregnant woman.
“I’m going to have a baby,” I beamed. “It’s finally happening.”
And it was.
We didn’t sleep that night. Not because of the pain, not yet…but because of the excitement. The energy in the room had shifted. Every contraction felt like a drumbeat marching us toward something sacred.
Sunday morning – I did not expect that
By Sunday morning, I was at 4 centimeters.
Finally.
We celebrated like we’d just won the Tour de France. I was mid–happy dance when the midwife dropped the next piece of news:
“I’m going to prepare the synthetic oxytocin.”
Wait - what?
“But… why?” I asked, my chest tightening a little.
“You’re in labor, yes. But it’s going too slowly. We need to speed things up.”
My heart sank.
I knew what this meant. Synthetic oxytocin is not the same as the one our brains lovingly release during birth. The natural one dances in harmony with endorphins, pleasure hormones, and the whole delicate orchestra that makes a med-free birth feel possible.
The synthetic version, unfortunately, is no such symphony. Just powerful contractions, stacked on top of each other, without the soothing balm of nature’s counterpoints.
I looked at the midwife, unsure. “It’s much harder to give birth without an epidural when induced this way, right?”
She nodded gently. “Yes, it’s harder.”
I looked down, disappointment flickering through me.
But then, she leaned in slightly, her voice steady.
“But it’s not impossible.”
I see a daring look in her eye - an invitation to defy the odds.
The hairs on my arms stand up, and I hear that word echo in my mind: not impossible.
And the challenger in me likes the challenge.
I’ll try.
I’ll try to get that pleasure loop going in my body, even if it’s induced.
I’ll try to use the power of my mind over my body, and see how far I can go.
Game on.
I am ready.
The birthing room
The midwife moves me to the birthing room that included a large bath, a bouncing ball, a chair with a hole and a bed.
The change of scenery feels good – it means that things are moving. They plug the oxytocin to my catheter and start this new induction process.
Very quickly, I feel the contractions getting stronger.
It’s go time.
I start using the tools I know to manage the pain. First, I grab my little round spiky wooden acupressure balls. I squeeze one in each hand during every contraction. The idea is to redirect the pain - give my brain something else to focus on. And it works.
Tim is right there, massaging me. During every contraction.
I also use my voice to help myself through the contractions. It’s a kind of low, soft purring sound (like a cat). It’s a sound I often make when Tim and I are cuddling on the couch at night while watchinf TV - when I feel safe, loved, and relaxed. So during labor, that sound became my anchor.
(It’s the same sound you might make when someone comes up behind you and starts massaging your shoulders - the kind of spontaneous “ahhh” of relief).
That sound became so important in my birth story for two reasons:
1. My brain already associates it with comfort and love.
2. Humming gently stimulates the vagus nerve, which activates the parasympathetic nervous system. In other words: it helps calm the body, regulate pain, and bring balance.
As contractions intensify, I lean into what I’ve learned from meditation. I shift into an altered state of consciousness, one where I can observe the pain instead of feeling like I am the pain.
It’s not that the pain disappears, it’s still there. But the way I relate to it changes. It feels like I’ve added a bit of distance between me and the sensation.
(This is exactly what I teach in my meditation masterclass, by the way - you can check it out
HERE.)
There’s another tool I used that made a big difference. As you may know, each contraction feels a bit like a wave, or a mountain. It rises, peaks, and then falls.
So during each contraction, I started saying three things in my head:
• “YES,” as soon as the contraction began (instead of resisting it).
• “Intensity is GOOD,” as it peaked.
• And as it faded, “I’m ready for another one.”
This mix; my mindset, my breath, Tim’s presence, the spiky balls, the sound, the meditative state…it became my personal cocktail of strength.
It helped me go the distance.
Three days of labor.
With the power of these tools.
But then… came the sentence that almost made me want to quit
Five hours later, a midwife comes in to check my cervix.
She looks up and says, “You’re between 4 and 5 centimeters.”
I stare at her. “What?? After all that, after 5 more hours of handling the pain… it barely moved?”
I feel a wave of despair wash over me. I was done. Tired. So, so tired.
It’s Sunday afternoon. I’ve been here since Friday morning.
At this point, I can’t even remember why I’m being so stubborn about not getting the epidural.
“I think I might want the epidural,” I tell Tim and the midwife.
But she looks at me and says something I didn’t expect.
“I think you can do this,” she says. “Actually - no. I know you can.”
I’m surprised. Usually, hospitals want to speed things up.
So the fact that she’s encouraging me to take my time and stay on the med-free path…it hits me. She’s not trying to get me to finish faster.
“I see the resources in you,” she adds. “Someone could walk in right now and not even know you’re in labor. You’ve got this.”
But I’m sooo tired. Tired of waiting, tired of the pain, tired of it all. I just want it to end, I want to hold my baby in my arms and start this new chapter I so long for.
Tim looks at me and tells me to keep going for one hour. In one hour, if nothing has changed cervix wise, we reassess.
I accept a bit reluctantly, but feeling deeply supported by these people around me believing in my strength.
At that moment, the midwife cranks up the IV drip of oxytocin BIG time. She goes for it.
‘’This might hurt a little’’ – she says, as she leaves the room.
Then things do get spicy.
Suddenly the contractions came one after the other. No pause, no time to breathe. For a whole hour, it was nonstop.
I couldn’t sit. I couldn’t lie down.
Every time I tried, a contraction would hit me hard.
So I did the only thing I could do: I stood up and bounced on Tim’s neck, doing this slow, rhythmic dance that somehow felt like we had teleported to a fire circle in Africa. It was wild, it felt sacred, and it felt as it time has stopped.
The only sounds were my deep, heavy moans, and Tim’s voice in my ear, telling me I could do it.
Every.
Single.
time.
Finally ready to push
After that hour, the midwife checks again.
“Seven centimeters.”
We see the same (amazing) midwife who started my induction on Friday. She walks in and says, “You’re still here?!”
We laugh.
Then she adds, “At 7 centimeters, you could have your baby in your arms in just a few hours. For sure, before midnight today.”
That was all I needed to hear.
Soon after, she tells me it’s time to push.
I get into the tub, lying on my back with my legs pressing against the opposite edge. Another midwife joins her, and they both sit in front of me, ready to welcome the baby.
They guide me through every push.
But then… my contractions slow down.
Way down.
From one every minute… to one every seven.
(I’m telling you, this is the longest birth EVER, lol. In every aspect.)
They suggest I only push when a contraction comes, so - let’s just say - it took forever.
At some point between contractions, everyone is quiet. We just sit there in silence, hearing droplets of water fall from the tap. A strangely awkward moment where no one really knows what to say. (It would’ve been funny if it wasn’t that intense, lol.)
After an hour, they suggest I change position and move to the bed.
The gynecologist joins us. I now have a full team gathered, waiting for that little head to appear.
She looks at me and says, “Three days, no epidural… you’re the legend of the whole birthing ward!”
I barely hear her, because I’m starting to feel what they call the ring of fire.
That’s the moment the baby’s head starts to crown. It’s intense.
But you know what?
I told you my birth was long…
Well, the ring of fire lasted 35 minutes for me.
Thirty-five minutes with my baby’s head crowning.
“You have a very high tolerance for pain,” the gynecologist tells me.
I didn’t have the strength to reply, but I formed an answer in my head - one I’m not even sure I said out loud:
I really, really don’t have a high pain tolerance (ask anyone who knows me, lol).
I’m not special.
What I do have is a trained mind from years of meditation.
The pain is the same - but my perception of the pain is different. And if I could train my mind to experience the pain differently - everyone can do it.
It just takes some practice and very quickly, you'll find that you can distance yourself from the pain, from the sensations of it - and that made all the difference for me in this birth marathon.
Ps - we've created a whole Pregnancy goal in the Envol app with tools to tap into your own resources and activate this inner power within you. Try it for free for one month with the code: JULIE30.
And then, finally - one last push...
The head.
The shoulders.
The body.
And just like that—he’s here.
They place him on my chest. He’s warm. Soft. Real.
Tim and I are flooded with emotion… fatigue, relief, curiosity, surprise… and love.
All at once.
A beautiful mix.
Welcome to the world, little Louan.
The lesson
A few days later, as we cuddle with our baby boy, Tim looks at me.
“Do you know what Louan gifted you?”
I glance over, curious.
“What do you mean?”
He smiles gently. “You wanted a fully unmedicated birth, but you had a hospital experience. With meds. And you're okay. Julie, you’re okay. Maybe this birth had to happen exactly this way - to reconcile you with the medical world. To help you heal that trauma you’ve carried all these years.”
“This,” he says, “is the gift your son has given you.”
I look at him, my eyes welling up.
And I realize…he’s right.
Louan didn’t just bring me into motherhood.
He brought me back to trust.
To softness.
To peace with the very system that once hurt me.
Sometimes, the most healing births aren’t the ones we plan.
They’re the ones that rewrite our story - one contraction, one choice, one surrender at a time.
Ps- I could’ve seen this birth as a failure. Because it didn’t go according to plan. Because I was given medication, even though I hadn’t touched a single pill in over ten years, not since that one antibiotic turned my life upside down. Because I was “late” and induced, when I wanted things to happen naturally, in their own time.
But I choose to see this experience differently.
I choose to see it as strength.
As healing.
As a moment where I met myself in a new way.
And most of all, as a moment where I was supported in ways I didn’t expect.
Because in the end, every experience, no matter how messy, imperfect, or unexpected, holds the potential to become something sacred.
It’s not the plan that defines the story.
It’s the perspective.
It’s what you learn from it. What you CHOOSE to learn from it.
Just like the pain during labor, it’s not always about removing the intensity, but about changing our relationship to it.
You can see the delay, the diagnosis, the detour as a failure.
Or you can choose to see it as something else:
As a doorway into your own power.
Birth, like life, asks us:
What story will you tell yourself?
You were never meant to be a victim of your circumstances -
but a powerful creator of your reality.
Not in spite of what you’ve lived through - but because of it.
You’ve got this, and remember: you ARE that powerful. Never forget it.
I am glad I didn’t <3.
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