The Marathon of Birth: 28 Hours That Changed Me Forever

A year ago, I was in no way ready to write about this—and definitely not ready to put it out there.

But for me, healing often means talking about something. It means looking back after the dust has settled and finding meaning in an experience that once felt impossible to make sense of.

Nobody can really tell you what giving birth is going to be like because nobody knows what it will be like for you.

Every birth story is different. For that reason, especially with your first baby, it can be counterproductive to spend too much time imagining exactly how it will unfold. How painful will it be? Will something go wrong? Will you be able to handle it?

You can ask questions. You can read books. You can talk to everyone you know.

But eventually, you have to walk through it yourself.

If there is anything I learned from the birth of my son, it's this:

Trust that you will get to the other side.

No matter what happens.

No matter how long it takes.

No matter how much your plans change.

You will get to the end.

When I was pregnant, I was constantly searching for answers. Since it was my first pregnancy, I spent a lot of time talking to moms, doulas, and doctors about labour.

Looking back now, there are a few things those people said that ended up being absolutely true.

"It's a marathon, not a sprint."

"It will probably be the most painful thing you ever experience."

"You'll learn how to go to a different place in your mind when a contraction hits."

"Don't have a plan."

"Social graces and manners go completely out the window."

"Labour is a force. Once it's happening, you realize how little control you actually have."

At the time, I listened politely and tucked those words away.

Twenty-eight hours later, I understood exactly what they meant.

The Experience

I woke up around 3:00 AM on April 10th feeling tiny contractions. At first, they were easy to ignore. I tossed and turned for a few hours, wondering if this was really it.

By 6:00 AM, I nudged my husband awake and said, "I think we need to go."

The hospital was an hour away.

As we drove, I remember feeling excited, nervous, and strangely calm. The contractions were uncomfortable, but they were nothing compared to what was coming.

When we arrived, I was checked and told I wasn't far enough along to be admitted.

So we left.

We grabbed lunch, got a hotel room, and I noticed a rubber ducky sitting on top of the bed. We then walked around some stores while I was having contractions.

Looking back, it's funny to think about.

There I was, casually browsing stores while in labour, completely unaware of how different the next twenty-four hours would be.

Eventually, we went back to the hotel and decided it might be nice to spend some time in the pool.

But while I was wading through the water, everything changed.

The contractions suddenly became much more intense.

I remember thinking, "Maybe it's still not bad enough."

So I called my mom.

After listening to me for a few moments she said,

"Claire, you're in active labour. Go to the hospital."

She was right.

We went back, and this time I was admitted.

By this point it was around 5:00 or 6:00 PM.

The pain continued to build.

Originally, I had wanted to avoid pain medication. Like many first-time moms, I think part of me wanted to prove I could do it naturally.

Eventually, I let that idea go and decided to get the epidural.

For a little while, it worked beautifully.

The pain felt manageable again.

The nurses were optimistic.

"We're going to have this baby by midnight."

Midnight came.

No baby.

Instead, my water broke.

And that was the turning point.

The contractions became relentless.

The kind of pain that makes time feel distorted.

The kind of pain where your entire world shrinks down to surviving the next wave.

I shook constantly.

Hours passed.

Everyone in the room was becoming tired.

My husband was tired.

My mom was tired.

The nurses were tired.

And I was exhausted beyond anything I had ever experienced.

Finally, sometime around 2:00 or 3:00 AM, it was time to push.

I had already been awake for nearly twenty-four hours.

I pushed.

And pushed.

And pushed.

For about an hour, I gave everything I had.

But he wasn't coming.

For the first time, I felt defeated.

I felt the disappointment in the room.

Not because anyone was angry or frustrated with me—but because we were all hoping for the same thing.

I started wondering if I could actually do this.

Then the doctor—who we later affectionately nicknamed "Doctor Dolittle"—came in.

He explained that a C-section would be difficult at this point because the baby had already moved too far down.

Then he said,

"We could try forceps."

I immediately looked over at my mom.

The look on her face was absolute horror.

Without missing a beat, she asked,

"WHAT ARE THE RISKS OF THAT?"

Which was basically her polite way of saying,

"Absolutely not." (She already knew the risks being a retired nurse).

At some point during all of this, my husband came over to me with tears in his eyes.

"Claire," he said, "you have to get this baby out. You have to do it for the baby."

I knew he wasn't trying to pressure me.

He was scared.

We all were.

By then, I was more exhausted than I had ever been in my entire life.

Then something unexpected happened.

The contractions slowed down.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, I drifted off to sleep.

Not for long.

But long enough to catch my breath.

Around 7:00 AM, the morning shift of nurses arrived.

And with them came an older nurse.

She wasn't overly soft.

She wasn't overly comforting.

She was calm, direct, and completely confident in herself.

Looking back, she was exactly what I needed.

She walked in and said,

"We need to start Pitocin and get these contractions going again."

I looked at her and asked,

"Is it going to hurt?"

Without missing a beat she replied,

"Not any more than it already has."

I knew she was right.

Because at that point, what else was there to say?

The nurses before her had been wonderfully kind.

But this nurse was different.

She was a coach.

She wasn't there to rescue me.

She was there to help me finish.

My husband and my mom looked at me with tired eyes.

Nobody had to say anything.

We all knew it was time.

So the contractions started again.

And I pushed.

I pushed harder than I thought was possible.

I pushed with every ounce of strength I had left.

Then suddenly, I heard shouting.

"The head is out!"

The room erupted with excitement.

I looked up at my husband and saw tears in his eyes.

And just like that, after twenty-eight hours of labour, it was over. My son was here. The Lesson As I held him for the first time, the pain that had consumed the last day of my life faded into the background.

Not because it wasn't real.

But because something bigger had taken its place.

Extreme gratitude.

Gratitude for the healthy baby boy in my arms.

Gratitude for my husband, who watched it all unfold and somehow loved me even more afterward.

Gratitude for my mom, who reminded me what a mother's love looks like.

Gratitude for the nurse who refused to let me quit.

And gratitude for every woman who has ever brought a child into this world.

The women who told me birth was a marathon were right.

The women who told me it would be the most painful thing I'd ever experience were right.

The women who told me labour was a force were right.

It is a force.

A force that humbles you.

A force that demands your respect.

A force that reminds you how little control you truly have.

And through all of it, I felt closer to God.

Because He is the author of life.

And in those twenty-eight hours, I caught a glimpse of just how miraculous that gift really is. Now I get to watch my son in the bubble bath playing with that rubber ducky we found on the hotel bed.