Evangeline’s Birth

The journey started in 2015. I remember meeting a midwife in Paris who cared for her patients all the way through pregnancy and postpartum—but she didn’t attend the births. This shocked me; I believed in continuity of care that stayed with a woman from conception through postpartum, including the birth itself, so she felt safe and supported through such a powerful transition. But that wasn’t the norm.

From then on, I spent years researching, trying to figure out the best way for me to give birth to my own children. It was my biggest dream. Growing up, I’d always thought an OB was the best option, but as I learned more, I realized doctors are there when things go wrong—not for the majority of births, which usually go right. Think about it: we wouldn’t be here if women’s bodies weren’t built for birth.

So I explored my options: an OB in a private hospital, public hospital care… but hospitals scared me. Through my research, I read stories of birth trauma from unnecessary interventions—epidurals, inductions, and more. And because I believe that pregnancy and birth aren’t illnesses, and my body is 100% capable of doing what it was designed to do, I knew that freebirth or homebirth were the only options I could consider.

When Eva was conceived, I returned to Australia—solo. In that moment, I was certain I wanted to give birth at home with a private midwife. I found Jenny Spencer, from South Coast Midwifery. I was in my first trimester, feeling defeated and devastated after the reality of a relationship rupture. I left behind a new career and almost a decade of life I had built in Europe. I lost 8 kg during that time, moving from London back to Paris, then from Paris back to Australia with the help of beautiful friends who supported me as I decided to become a mother on my own. Facing this journey alone wasn’t something I’d planned, but I knew it was the right decision.

Morning sickness made this time even harder. I could barely eat eggs, bananas, avocado, or anything with a tomato base. But it’s amazing what we can do when something bigger than ourselves drives us. This is resilience; this is being a mom.

Once I returned home, I searched for homebirth midwives and found Jenny. As I read her website, I burst into tears—I knew she was the one who would support me through this incredible journey and guide me through my daughter’s entry into the world. From week 12 of my pregnancy, we met once a month. A relationship built on trust and open communication began to grow.

During each visit, we talked. She held space for me to vent about my fears—fears of becoming a mother, of doing this on my own, of making the best choices for myself and my baby. I decided to take only the 20-week scan, skipping the gestational diabetes test and others that I felt didn’t align with my approach. Every session, we’d check the baby’s heartbeat and my blood pressure—all from the comfort of my own home.

She became my friend and confidante. Alongside her support, the 20 or so books I read and The Great Birth Rebellion podcast gave me the most beautiful and empowering pregnancy I had dreamed of for years.

I stayed active up until my waters broke.

It happened around 12 pm on Thursday, July 11, at the Kiama Blowhole of all places. I paused to watch the tide surge powerfully through the rocks, feeling it mirrored the contractions I’d soon experience. It wasn’t like the dramatic water breaking in movies, though I knew it was time. I kept walking with my mum and my brother’s girlfriend, Lisa, who was visiting for the weekend—no one noticed, not even me.

I updated Jenny about the waters breaking and monitored the color and smell. When I saw it change from clear to pink, then light green (possibly meconium), I couldn’t help but feel a strange calm. Jenny and I decided to keep an eye on it, and from then on, she communicated directly with my mum.

My “due date” was July 15, though I felt sure it wasn’t the right date. I knew contractions would start soon. As we got home, I felt a slow ache in my back and dull waves in my belly that came and went. I had time.

There is a magic ficus tree near my home that grows over a rock, both supporting each other. I wanted to labor near it, so Lisa and I walked to sit by the tree. I leaned against it, asking for protection as I entered the realm of birth. I swear the tree answered me.

When we returned home, it was dark. Contractions grew closer and stronger. We set up the birthing space in the living room by the fire—thick gym mats, birthing balls, snacks, drinks, affirmations I’d created, and mandalas I’d drawn throughout my pregnancy. We blew up the pool, ready to go.

That night was rough.

Contractions came closer, strong and short. But a deep, relentless pain throbbed in my back, like my sacrum was tearing apart, and my right sciatic nerve pulsed with shooting pain down my leg. I tried everything for relief—moving over the ball, the couch, lunging, squatting, searching for space within my body. The TENS machine didn’t help, no matter where I placed the pads. I vomited from the intensity.

Mum called Jenny, who arrived around 4:30 am. By then, it had been like this since 10 pm. I was at my limit. She checked the baby’s heartbeat and offered her support, staying around for a while as I continued in pain.

At sunrise, contractions slowed, and Jenny, confident Mum and Lisa would be enough, left for now.

Lisa was my anchor—performing reiki, massaging me, offering food and water, knowing exactly when to be close and when to give me space. She managed my mum’s panic and gave me the reassurance I needed. She stayed by my side through Friday, July 12, and I am forever grateful. Without her, I don’t think I could have endured another day.

Saturday came. Exhausted but determined, I knew hospitals and interventions weren’t an option for me. I am perfectly capable of birthing my baby.

In the evening, I found myself alone at last. I sat at the piano and sang “Your Song” by Elton John. Through tears and contractions, I sang for the love and grief I held for my ex, for my determination to create a beautiful life for my baby alone.

As the last note faded, I felt a huge downward pressure. She was ready.

I jumped in the shower to ease the pain, moving through each contraction, roaring with each release. I stayed there for hours, wild and primal, until I felt the baby’s head in my hand. I called for Jenny.

She arrived, and we filled the birthing pool. In record time, I got in, feeling a sense of calm wash over me. With Jenny’s guidance, I moved slowly and steadily, each breath bringing her closer. The water softened the ache, and with one final push, she slipped out. I lifted her to my chest as “The Mother” by Brandi Carlile played softly in the background.

I am the mother of Evangeline.

Silent, wide-eyed, she blinked up at me, adjusting to this new world. There was no rush, no panic—just calm, gentle instructions that allowed me to stay present with Eva in my arms. And that’s where she stayed for hours. Eventually, I stood to birth her placenta, feeling incredibly powerful, with my daughter in my arms.

We returned to the couch, where Jenny and Anna, our second midwife, had set up a comfortable space for us. Jenny crocheted Eva’s cord tie while I continued to discover my daughter, trying to breastfeed for the first time. A beautiful gift I still cherish.

A couple of hours later, I cut Evangeline’s cord, which had turned white and stopped pulsing. I kept the placenta in the freezer, and in October, with her father, we planted it under a fig tree on the land she was born on, as a tribute to the cycle of life.

When everything was ready, Jenny gently weighed and checked Eva, then tucked us both into bed. We had her support for six weeks post-birth, and I rested deeply, knowing my body had accomplished something miraculous.

Homebirth was undeniably worth it.

As I write this, tears fall. Jenny truly embodies the essence of the word midwife—“with woman.”