“It won’t happen to me.”
When I found out I was pregnant with Leo, I was overjoyed - but also terrified. I’d miscarried just months earlier, and that grief lived in my body. Even as I tried to focus on the miracle, I couldn’t shake the anxiety that something might go wrong. At the same time, everyone around me - doctors, midwives, family - reassured me I was young, fit, healthy, and “low risk.”That phrase was repeated to me again and again. It was meant to soothe me, but it also silenced me.
I voiced my fears about my small frame, my narrow hips, and my instinct that this baby would be big. I asked about the possibility of a caesarean section. But those concerns were brushed aside, as though my fitness and strength automatically protected me. “You’ll be fine.” “There’s nothing to worry about.” “This won’t happen to you.”
On the day of Leo’s birth in November 2021, everything unravelled. I ended up in theatre, having an emergency caesarean section. What still haunts me is that I was awake - fully awake - while my insides were being cut open. At first, I thought it would be routine. But then, blood started pouring out of me. I could feel the panic in the room shift, the air becoming heavier.
At one point, I lost so much blood I thought I was going to die. I remember looking at the faces of the doctors and nurses and realising that they were frightened. That’s when the myth collapsed. I wasn’t low risk. I wasn’t safe. I wasn’t the exception. This was happening to me, right then, and it was catastrophic.
Leo had to be resuscitated. My body tore apart. I survived, but only just.
People often talk about the joy of new motherhood. For me, those first weeks and months were filled with trauma. I couldn’t bond with Leo the way I wanted to. I was paralysed by flashbacks, anxiety, and nightmares. I was later diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder.
The damage wasn’t just psychological. My uterus was left scarred with Asherman’s syndrome, which means I won’t be able to carry another pregnancy. Later, complications with my bowel meant more hospital stays, surgery, and eventually a stoma bag. My body is changed forever.
Even now, I can be triggered by the sound of a baby crying or the sterile smell of a hospital. They transport me back into that theatre, to the moment I thought I was about to bleed to death.
Before all this, I carried the same assumption so many people do: that severe complications in childbirth were rare, almost unimaginable. I thought: “That happens to other people, not to me.” I ate well, exercised, looked after myself. I did everything “right.”
But birth doesn’t care about that. Catastrophe doesn’t discriminate. And when it does happen, it’s devastating to realise how fragile the line is between life and death, between joy and trauma. I don’t share my story to frighten people, but to break the silence. Too often we are told birth is natural, straightforward, something women’s bodies are built to withstand. Sometimes that’s true — but not always. And when the narrative glosses over the risks, it leaves people like me feeling blindsided, unprepared, and even ashamed when the unthinkable happens.
I titled my book Lucky because, despite everything, I survived. I am lucky to be alive, lucky that Leo survived, lucky that I can hold him in my arms. But I don’t feel lucky about the trauma that followed, the scars on my body, or the way my life has been reshaped.
If I can share one message, it’s this: don’t fall for the myth that “it won’t happen to me.” It can. It did. And if it does, you deserve to be listened to, supported, and believed - every step of the way.
If you find yourself in a similar situation, know that you're not alone. Reach out to organisations like the Birth Trauma Association, which offers invaluable resources and peer support. And remember, healing isn't linear. It's okay to seek help, to take your time, and to prioritise your well-being. You are deserving of care, compassion, and a path to recovery.
Louise and Leo, during her time in hospital following Leo’s birth.
