I am a home birth midwife, but I was not equipped for doula work.

As a home birth midwife who began her journey directly in out-of-hospital birth rather than the more common path through doula work, my understanding of birth was shaped by something profound and primal. I learned birth in spaces where informed consent wasn't just a form to sign, but an ongoing dialogue. Where every touch was preceded by a “Is it ok if I touch you?”, every intervention discussed with care and respect.

In home birth, I witnessed birth in its raw power – mothers roaring their babies earthside into their partners' waiting hands. I saw women treated like queens, tenderly fed warm soup as they nursed their newborns, basking in the oxytocin haze of those first precious hours. We created sacred spaces: intimate, dark, quiet sanctuaries where birth could unfold naturally, with minimal interruption. These mothers emerged from labor victorious, reborn into motherhood.

Then I began attending hospital births as a doula during my apprenticeship to help financially support my family, and my heart shattered.

I remember sitting in my car after one particular birth, sobbing to my preceptor. The mother wasn't traumatized – she had what she considered a good experience, because it was all she knew. But I witnessed something else: hands reaching inside her body without permission, stretching her open during pushing even as she asked them to stop. She was told she had to lay on her back, ordered out of the comfort of warm water to push. Eleven strangers moved through the room under harsh fluorescent lights as she labored. Her legs were placed in stirrups, her dignity stripped away as gloved hands pulled on her baby's head instead of waiting for the natural restitution of birth.

They called it a "normal spontaneous vaginal birth" in the American medical system, but there was nothing normal about it to me. She wasn't celebrated as the warrior she was. She wasn't empowered in her strength. Instead, she was handed a six-week checkup appointment and discharged within 24 hours – none of the intensive postpartum care and breastfeeding support that we know mothers deserve.

I had to stop taking doula clients. The weight of grief became too heavy to bear – mourning for experiences these mothers didn't even know were being stolen from them. I wept for the births they could have had, for the ancient wisdom of generations reduced to a medical procedure managed by strangers.

My heart aches that I couldn't continue supporting women in hospital settings, and I hold deep gratitude for the doulas who do this vital work. But birth trauma isn't just about the mothers – it affects all of us who witness this sacred rite of passage being diminished. It was a trauma I couldn't reconcile or move past.

Some might say I abandoned these mothers by stepping away. But sometimes, acknowledging our limits isn't weakness – it's wisdom. And perhaps by sharing this truth, we can begin to imagine a different way forward, where every birth honors both the physical and spiritual journey of bringing new life into the world. I still try to pour into the hospital birthing community through childbirth education, but my in hospital experiences are limited to times when my midwifery clients need to birth in the hospital setting.

Let me be clear: there are incredible providers in hospital settings who understand and protect the sacred space of birth. I've witnessed beautiful, empowering hospital births where mothers were respected, supported, and celebrated. When medical interventions are truly needed, I'm profoundly grateful for the lifesaving care our hospital system provides my clients. But treating every physiologic birth as a medical event – managing, controlling, and intervening in a process that women's bodies inherently understand – robs mothers of something fundamental to their power and humanity.