DIARY OF A BIRTH: Eliza went in for a routine c-section. She felt everything.

The third time is supposed to be the charm.

After two caesareans, I thought I was an expert. Been there, done that.

But Augie was determined to make an unexpected arrival into my life. So, in hindsight, maybe I should have seen it coming.

I found out I was pregnant in the cubicle of a food court bathroom, early in the morning before work. It was still dark outside. I'd just arrived at the office, my dream job at Vogue.

We were living in Stockholm, Sweden. A YOLO move, we'd told ourselves. This was going to be our year. Travel. Adventure. Raising our two kids bi-lingual, flying through time zones like the nonchalant family we were trying to be.

A third baby? That wasn't just off-plan. It wasn't even on the same map.

But there they were: two little lines that might as well have been written in Swedish for how foreign they felt in that moment. My hands shook as I held the test, watching as it changed my carefully curated life in real time. Somehow, though, beneath the shock and the bathroom stall's fluorescent lighting, I felt it, a certainty that this child was meant to find me, even in Stockholm, even now.

The early weeks were rough. I was navigating the shock. The deep cold of a minus 14 Swedish winter I wasn't built for. It was so cold, I couldn't open a window. I couldn't even step outside some days. It felt suffocating at times. I was nauseous, dizzy, and away from my closest friends.

At 10 weeks, I called my parents in Australia and told them I was pregnant through tears. But they were ecstatic. Their joy was like opening a window, finally. It was the fresh air I hadn't realised I needed.

After the scan, we told the rest of the family and my two boys were beside themselves with excitement. Their buzzing for a baby brother carried me through the months that followed. Through the never-ending morning sickness. Through the exhaustion. Through the too-tight clothes and the too-short days.

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By the end of the pregnancy, I was so done. I was huge. I couldn't sleep. I was all ribs and aches and counting the minutes until he arrived. I'd had two caesareans before, so I knew what was coming, or at least, I thought I did.

But this was Sweden. A different hospital. A different language. A different system.

The boys were at home with their Swedish grandparents, giddy with excitement, counting down the minutes until they'd meet their new little brother. I'd done everything I could to feel ready: new outfit, fresh nails, even my hair done. It felt ceremonial — a celebration of what was to come. My parents were just days away from arriving. Everything was lining up.

I walked into the operating theatre on the morning of the planned caesarean feeling strangely confident. I've done this. Third baby. I know the drill.

We got to the hospital, calm and excited. I was hooked up, monitored, prepped. The spinal block went in. I was wheeled into the operating theatre, already half in mum-mode and half in go-time mode.

But bodies don't always follow the plan.

They did the ice test. This little trick in caesareans where they press something cold against your skin to see if the numbness is working. It's not that you don't feel anything during a c-section, you do. The tugging, the shifting. But you're not supposed to feel pain.

They press the ice against my body. I flinch. I can feel it.

Okay, maybe it needs more time.

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They up the dosage. Again. Again. They tilt the bed, shift my weight, reposition me. It's been 20 minutes. And still, I can feel the cold. I'm second-guessing myself by now. Confused. Tired. Desperate to meet this baby I've carried through the snow and the ache and the sheer heaviness of these past nine months.

One of the doctors suggests postponing. Coming back in the afternoon.

And I just panic. No, please, one more try. I didn't have another mental gear to go back home and wait. I needed him out, here, now.

They do the ice test again. I hesitate, then say, I think I'm okay to go.

Everyone gets into place. The air changes. The rhythm of the room clicks into surgery mode. My husband Gustaf beside me. A room of masked strangers speaking a language I barely understand.

And then, they begin. They cut through the first layers of skin without a problem. My baby is nearly here.

And then three minutes in as they are about to cut into my uterus, I feel it.

The sting. A white-hot cut, sharp and blinding. Not tugging. Not pressure. Real, visceral pain.

I reach for my husband's hand and I scream. I can feel this. I can feel EVERYTHING.

The chaos after that is a blur. Alarms. Commands in Swedish and English. I'm sweating, scared, breaking. I hear the words: "We need to put her out."

They rush my husband from the room. I'm gone.

When I wake up, it's like surfacing through thick fog. I'm disoriented, drugged, confused. "Where am I?" I ask no one and everyone.

And then, there he is. A tiny, bundled little being wearing a little hat. They place him on my chest. And in the video of the moment, I'm laughing, I'm crying, I'm wide-eyed and completely, beautifully lost.

That was the moment I met August Leo.

We were wheeled back to the room, together at last. Me, Gustaf and our boy. And slowly, I began to settle into the rhythm of recovery. The pain of the cut. The weight of the moment. The joy of him. The fact that, somehow, it was over.

The reality is… I got my baby. And that made me genuinely happy.

Everything went wrong and yet everything was okay. I was safe. He was safe. And that was all I needed in that moment.

Eliza's third boy, August Leo. Image: Supplied.

The next day, one of the anaesthetists came in to talk through what happened. She was calm and kind, but honest. She said she wasn't exactly sure why the block didn't take the way it should have. The dosage was right. She told me that, in the same circumstances, she'd do it the same way again.

She wondered if it was something about my body, maybe my height, or the way I carry, that meant the drug didn't reach where it needed to go.

And that was that.

I moved on, because I had to. Because I was holding my third son. Because I had two other boys to mother and a world to return to.

Having two births under my belt was my saving grace. I had a roadmap for recovery. I understood the exhaustion of newborn life. When everything else went sideways, these familiar landmarks kept me grounded.

Had this been my first caesarean... well, it might have been my last. I'm not sure I would have willingly walked back into an operating theatre after that experience. Sometimes, even now, I'll wake up with a jolt, thinking of that moment. The sting, the scream, the blur of voices.

Everyone's story is different. And this is mine.

I think it shows why we need to talk more about birth. About trauma. About the moments that don't go to plan. About giving women the space to process what they've been through, to feel what they feel, and to know it's okay to seek help.

Because birth is not just one day. It stays with you. In your body. In your mind. And in your heart.

And somehow, through all of that chaos and pain and fear… you still fall in love.

For more incredible Diary of a Birth stories, head here.

Featured Image: Supplied.