A Birth Story

Rambles from my notes app about birth, motherhood —and life.”

Getting pregnant with River wasn’t part of my “plan.” Honestly, I don’t have many fixed plans about much of anything. But at that moment in my life, it was most definitely not what I saw coming next. And yet, now, it only feels exactly right.can have only or exactly not both

Everything seemed to align—like the universe’s perfect puzzle piece. It was a gut feeling, a nudge, a deep knowing that this was the next right step. And honestly? I’ve never met anyone like Thomas—capable, hilarious, thoughtful, deeply kind. From the start, I knew he’d be the one to guide and teach my children. We come from different worlds, different beliefs, different ways of navigating life (that’s a story for another day), but one thing I knew—and now know even more—is that he was meant to be their father, their teacher.

The first three months of my pregnancy, I kept it all hidden in Rapa Nui. I think maybe I was still processing it, maybe I was embarrassed, or maybe I was just starting to see myself differently. But those months? They felt sacred. Just Thomas and me, sharing something intimate, something we kept close before the world knew.

Later, I spent my second trimester back in the U.S., then made the final journey to Rapa Nui in the third trimester. I knew she had to be born there—deeply rooted in the land that shaped my identity. Both Thomas and I are indigenous to that land. I needed her to arrive on the soil that is my ancestral home—because that’s where she belongs, where her roots are.

The birth itself—by far the hardest thing I’ve ever done—taught me something fundamental: the importance of listening. Not just hearing, but truly, deeply listening. Your own voice is your most trustworthy guide. When you learn to listen, chaos turns into clarity, fear into trust, and uncertainty into a quiet, unwavering knowing.

My relationship with medicine and hospitals had been complicated from childhood. At seven, I had brain surgery—months in the hospital, wired up, groggy, scared. Hospitals became a place I dreaded—and still do. I’ve always had a kind of hospital phobia, which is part of why I instinctively felt that birth should be different.

Initially, I explored the standard US healthcare route. My OB in the US was with Columbia, and I attended those appointments. But they always felt rushed, impersonal. Little questions brushed aside, hurried answers, sometimes with a dismissive “just Google it.” I’d bring a list of concerns, only to get quick responses that felt cold. Looking back, I realize I’d grown used to that environment—so much so that I didn’t question how disconnected I felt from my own experience. That was just how it was, even since I was a teenager. I preferred it that way; I didn’t want to be in the stirrups longer than necessary.

Then, at 28 weeks pregnant, I returned to Rapa Nui. And everything shifted. I’d internalized the idea that care on the island might be worse—less thoughtful, less capable. But I was wrong. My first appointment with a midwife there  lasted over an hour and a quarter. She asked how I was, and talked to me like a person, not just a patient. She did the ultrasounds, bloodwork—everything I needed—but the care felt different. I felt seen, cared for, and respected as a person. She sent me home with soup and tea.

That moment was a turning point. It wasn’t about US versus other countries’ healthcare. It was about me starting to listen—to truly listen—to myself. Why had I kept going to those rushed, impersonal US appointments, ignoring my gut? Why did I dismiss my own instincts?

I joke with people that I give birth “camping”. I didn’t literally, but I kind of did. Having River on our remote, wild ranch—without electricity, without running water—was the ultimate lesson in trust. She arrived early, on a rainy day, no midwife, no sterile hospital—just primal instincts guiding us. (This was not our original plan, but it all unfolded this way.)

I remember the wind howling gently but insistently, and then, outside the cabin, one of our cows giving birth to her calf at the same time– a reminder that it's possible and natural. It was unpredictable—just like everything in that moment. I went into labor early, and I labored for a few days before active labor truly kicked in. Leading up to that moment, Thomas was outside, making soup over the open fire, warming stones to keep the house and bed warm, draping thick linen canvas over the uninstalled windows to block the wind. All of this might sound crazy or at least much too rustic to some. And maybe it totally was. But for me, it was a forceful reminder: it was real. It was raw. It was what listening to my body truly meant.

In that wild, unfiltered space, I was forced to hear what my body needed—without distractions, interruptions, or the comfort of modernity. Our bodies know what to do, and I trusted that knowing. Somehow, despite the chaos, or maybe because of it, that deep primal trust was enough.  

 She was born on November 11th, on our ranch in a tiny forest tucked into a small valley. It was physically the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but my biggest mental challenge ever, too. The kind of listening and trusting that allows your instincts—and your animal self—to take over. That letting go, that surrender, I think might only ever happen in birth.

Now, fast forward to this second pregnancy. I’m not heading back to the remote cabin again—though I cherish that experience. Managing another round of obtaining a US citizenship,  I’d probably lose my mind. I’ve set myself up with a trusted midwife here in the States—someone I feel good about, who takes the time I need. I’m also planning for plenty of postpartum support, because I already hear my body whispering: I’m tired. I know I’ll be more exhausted this time, and I’m preparing for that—extra hands, food deliveries, whatever it takes. Because at the core, the most vital act remains: listening—really listening—to what my body and soul need.

I switched OB-GYNs, to a different columbia Dr.. I wanted a different kind of care—someone still affiliated with Columbia, but more aligned with my needs. I asked for longer appointments, real connection. When I requested a referral to my midwife—something I’d planned from the start—her response? “We don’t do that,” she said. “In my career, I’ve never had anyone ask for that.” I explained it was for insurance reasons, and because I wanted to pursue that option. Her reaction? “We can just schedule to induce you or do a C-section,” as if those were the only options. It was mind-boggling.

Who recommends induction or surgery for someone who’s already had a successful, intervention-free birth outside the hospital? Who casually suggests those options because it’s “convenient”? I left that appointment knowing I was listening to myself, and that this care wasn’t for me. It’s not who I am, and I refuse to be guided by someone who doesn’t truly understand my body or respect my instincts.

That experience only solidified what I believe: you need to know yourself and listen to yourself—even when you’re up against bright lights, white coats, and insurance cards. I still believe in medical procedures when they’re necessary. But I trust my body’s innate wisdom more. The challenge? Learning how to tell the difference.

This isn’t just a birth story. It’s a story about life—about understanding that the power to know what’s best for us already resides within us. We just need to quiet the noise, listen, and trust. And if there’s one thing I tell my friends who are expecting it’s this: trust yourself – listen to yourself. Not because someone told you to, but because inside you, there’s a quiet voice—a whisper—that knows more than you think. Your body, your mind, your soul—each one already knows what’s true and what’s best.