The Early Buzz – That Electric Start to a Birth

Kirsten and Mark’s Homebirth Story — Part 2

This is the true story of a homebirth I supported a couple of years ago. The names I have used are not their real names, and they know I have written this account (which I will be sharing with them).

The message came through just as I was sitting down to watch some TV.

Ping.
“It’s time, can you come now?”

In doula-world, that message is so darned exciting. One second you’re horizontal and cosy, the next you’re throwing on leggings (inside-out), checking your doula bag like you haven’t already packed it 47 times. Yes, my Mars bar is there.

I said a quick goodbye to my family and asked my son Joe the usual question:
“So… what do you think? Boy or girl?”

This is another odd little tradition that came from nowhere. He always tries to guess as I head out to a birth (and is spookily right most times). He guessed boy. I already knew he was right - they’d found out months before - but I wasn’t telling him yet.

I grabbed my bag, keys, and trusty water bottle and headed out into the dark, quiet evening. Not knowing when I’d be home again. I love this anticipation and excitement - it never gets old.

The Early Buzz – That Electric Start to a Birth

When I arrived, the house was dark and calm. The soft kind of quiet that only exists when a toddler is asleep and parents are too scared to move, just in case they wake them.

Kirsten was already in the zone: slow breaths, hands resting on the edge of the pool, hips swaying. Mark had that excited-but-terrified look partners get, like he’d run a marathon just getting the fairy lights plugged in.

We settled into that early-labour rhythm - practical bits (water temperature, towels, cold drinks) mixed with the emotional stuff (breath cues, reassurance, the occasional mildly inappropriate joke, because that’s what our vibe was as a team).

There’s always this point, during a birth like this one, where the air changes. You feel it before you see it.
After a couple of hours, Kirsten’s surges ramped up a gear and she asked for the midwives.

A Long Wait and Two Good Humans

They arrived about 50 minutes later.

One of them was Claire, who I’ve worked with several times and adore. She’s everything you want in a midwife - grounded, calm, quietly fierce when it comes to protecting a woman’s choices.

From that moment, the house became a little bubble.
Low lights.
Gentle whispers.
Socks padding on carpet.
The occasional slurp of someone’s forgotten cuppa.
And mostly… silence.

Long minutes and hours of doing very little.

The Wobble – and the Shift

It was the early hours when it happened.

The wobble.

There’s nearly always at least one at every birth.

Kirsten suddenly sat up, eyes wide, breath choppy, panic flickering across her face.

“I can’t do this. I can’t. I’m done.”

I reminded her she WAS doing this and that so far she’d been rocking it. I reminded her she is amazing. I reminded her she can do hard shit!

The midwives asked gently if they could do a vaginal exam - something she’d already politely but clearly declined a few hours earlier.

This time she snapped:

“No. I said no. Please don’t ask again.”

She wasn’t rude, just DONE.

And honestly? This is usually a bloody good sign.

I caught Claire’s eye and she shot me a look - a knowing look that said exactly what I was thinking:

She doesn’t need a VE. She needs to be in control.

And then Mark stepped in.

Honestly, this man was as cool as a cucumber – at least on the surface.

He held her hands, brought his face close to hers, and spoke with so much love it gave me goosebumps.

“You’re safe. You’re incredible. You can do this. Look - all of us are here. We’re not going anywhere. We’ve got you and you’ve got this.”

The tenderness.
The strength.
The absolute devotion.

I swear, if every birthing woman had a Mark, the world would be a very different place.
Such a shift from the “rabbit in the headlights” partner he’d described himself as at their first birth. He was rocking it too.

The Part Where She Turns Into a Warrior

I’d love to tell you she then breathed her baby out like a serene goddess.

But no.
Real birth rarely looks like the Instagram version.

Instead, the next two hours were pure, unfiltered power.

She swore like a sailor.
Bellowed through each surge.
Got absolutely livid with Mark every time he dared to shift his weight or blink too loudly.

And still - she kept going.

Her body was doing ancient, instinctive work and she was riding it with raw determination. Blood, sweat, and tears.

We kept her cool with sips of water.
I gently swept her hair back, twisting stray strands away from her face and into her ponytail so she could focus.
I pressed lip balm onto her lips because she needed it but didn’t have the capacity to ask.
Mark and I tag-teamed counter-pressure on her lower back - which is why I budget for chiropractors and post-birth massages like they’re part of my religion.

It all begins with self-care! You here this a lot on our courses!

The Instinctive Shift

And then, like someone had flicked a switch, she stood up in the pool and rose onto her tiptoes - that primal, unmistakable sign.

She didn’t say a word.
She just moved.

We scrambled around her - towels, inco pads, hands ready but not intrusive - as she slowly emerged from the pool, leaning heavily into Mark while the contractions kept coming.

She needed to move.
Not because anyone told her to.
Not because she thought she should.
But because her body demanded it.

This is the kind of birth that stays with you. Honestly, I bloody love it!

The Wild, Beautiful Endgame

We followed her down the hallway like a slow-motion support parade, and she stopped in the bathroom, gripping the edge of the sink with white knuckles.

The midwives kept listening in.
They knew.
We all knew.

The oxytocin in that house could’ve powered the National Grid.

You are strong.
You are safe.
You can do this.

I whispered it.
Mark whispered it.
Claire whispered it.

And then, in that tiny bathroom - all squeezed in like a very weird game of human Tetris - she birthed her baby. Her second beautiful son.

No drama.
No fuss.
Just instinct, power, and the most beautiful surrender.

The look on her face afterwards said everything.

This was the birth she deserved after everything she’d been through the first time.

This was the healing.
This was the reclamation.

And that’s where I’ll leave you for now… because the story doesn’t end here.

Part 3 will take you through the first hours after birth, the messy, magical, utterly human postnatal moments, and how this family began to settle into life as four. Trust me, you won’t want to miss it. See you there…..