On Not Being Ready Yet: Birth Trauma and Baby #2

I fell pregnant in November 2023 and our beautiful boy Atlas joined us earthside in August 2024, two weeks late, in a very prolonged, life-changingly difficult, emergency arrival.

It was an experience that completely broke me, a deep, intrinsic and traumatic few days that I feel inside me even now.

Describing his birth and my trauma around it is still raw for me. It comes in flashes:

An induction despite being in early labour.
Checks and prods and no control.
Pain searing through my back.
Being denied the birthing pool.
Three days without sleep. Forgetting to eat.
Decisions made for me. My voice small.
The risks. The precautions. The numbness spreading up my spine.|
Fear. Not finding his heartbeat.
Signing it all away.

Being rolled through the hospital feeling like an empty body.
The operating room.
Being told to push but not knowing who I was anymore.
Certain I was dying.
My own blood splattering.
An extra cut to pull him out. His head stuck. Body twisted.
Then - at last - his cry.
His tiny, bloody face.
And him being taken away from me.

Stitches. Alone. Sitting in my own blood for hours. Staring at the wall.
Cold. Shivering so hard my teeth vibrated.
Hungry. Forgotten.
Climbing into a bath when I needed a shower.
Isolation.
Certain, even as we left the hospital, that I had died there.

And it’s not just the birth that haunts me. The aftermath.

He wouldn’t latch. I spent months berating myself, hating myself, feeling like I wasn’t enough.
Making it to six months with the little milk I had - and still believing it wasn’t enough.
His tongue tie discovered weeks later.
Crying. Not sleeping.
Unable to breathe stepping back onto that ward for his checks.

And before all of that - the pregnancy.

Eleven months of negative tests.
Crying my soul out at every “no.”
Vomiting so violently blood vessels burst and raised beneath my skin, again and again.
Feeling trapped in a body I’d fought so hard to love despite all the teenage hatred I’d accumulated.
Endless scans for my thyroid. Rising blood pressure. Swelling that hurt.
Living every single day in fear.

I have fought so hard against all of that.

And I am proud of myself.

Despite everything, being his mum is the greatest thing in my life. Our bond deepens every day. Motherhood reshaped me. It lit a fire in me. I started running. I leaned into yoga. I took risks. I lived intentionally. I lost 25kg. I reclaimed my body. I found strength I didn’t know existed.

I am so content.

So, yes, the idea of having another child appeals to me. In fact, I long for it. Deeply. With an ache.

But that trauma lives under my skin, in my c-section wounds, in my organs and in my womb. It wakes in the night. It flares when I feel vulnerable.

I’m asked constantly:

“When are you having another?”
“Don’t you want a close age gap?”
“Don’t you want Atlas to have a sibling?”
“Aren’t you worried about time?”

And while part of me wants to say, lovingly, “hey, it’s none of your fucking business” - the questions echo inside me anyway.

It is the thing I want most.

And the thing I fear most.

I have transformed my life. I’ve reclaimed my health, my movement, my strength. I’m terrified of losing that again. It’s my salvation. I live with hope I could run throughout the pregnancy, keep teaching yoga at my heaviest, lift weights to help me recover faster, that I wouldn’t permanently gain back the weight I’ve fought so hard to lose - but what if it all falls apart again? I’m terrified of watching my body swell and not recognising myself.

I’m terrified of it all spiralling out of control. Of deepening the wounds.

It may sound selfish.

It’s also honest.

So, I will have another baby. I’m young. And I won’t be starting from zero next time. I have foundations now, fitness, resilience, knowledge. I know how to advocate for myself. I know I will likely walk into that operating room for a planned surgery, not chaos.

And I know the reward.

That newborn smell.
A family of four.
A sibling for Atlas.
Another human to pour my love into.

It will be more than worth it.

But forgive me for not being excited yet.

Forgive me for not being ready.