'My son is healthy and perfect. But I'm traumatised by how he got here.'

We're sold the dream that pregnancy is magical — the glow, the kicks, the belly everyone wants to touch. But no one tells you what happens when the "most beautiful moment of your life", becomes the most terrifying.

For many women, birth isn't beautiful. It's brutal. And the trauma doesn't end when the baby arrives.

We celebrate the miracle of life — the tears, the cuddles, the first breath — but what about when that first breath doesn't come easily? What about when the "love bubble" is replaced with panic, silence, and fear?

My pregnancy was considered high-risk, but it was managed so well that I truly believed my birth would be okay. My obstetrician was incredible, my baby was growing perfectly, and I did everything I could to prepare. But nothing could have prepared me for what actually happened in that delivery room.

Watch: The profound and potentially long-lasting emotional impacts following a traumatic birth. Post continues after video.

When I gave birth, my son had to fight for his life. He didn't breathe for over five minutes. Five excruciating minutes that felt like an eternity.

The reason? Shoulder dystocia — an obstetric emergency that affects less than 1 per cent of births. It happens when a baby's shoulder gets stuck behind the mother's pelvic bone after the head has already been delivered. It's unpredictable, dangerous, and can result in brain injury or worse if not treated immediately. 

My OB acted fast. My baby was literally pulled out by hand. But when they placed him on my chest, he wasn't crying. He wasn't moving. He was this beautiful, floppy little being — silent. And then, just like that, he was gone again. Whisked away from my arms, surrounded by a frantic team trying to resuscitate him.

That's the part no one prepares you for — the moment where you think you might lose the tiny person you've loved before even meeting. 

Thankfully, he started breathing. He was okay. We were so lucky. He was monitored closely for a week, and he's now a healthy, happy little boy. But that doesn't erase what happened. 

I didn't get that "golden hour" everyone talks about — the skin-to-skin, the tears of relief, the rush of joy. Instead, I got fear. Chaos. Silence. And then a lingering feeling that I wasn't allowed to talk about any of it. 

Because how can you talk about trauma when you also have a healthy baby? How can you say, "I'm not okay", when everyone else is saying, "At least he's safe — that's all that matters"? 

The truth is, I felt ashamed. Ungrateful. Like I wasn't allowed to feel anything but bliss. But trauma doesn't disappear just because you have something to be thankful for.

The next day, I realised how rare what happened was — everyone in the hospital seemed to know about "the shoulder dystocia case." I was the story being whispered in the hallways.

But even then, I didn't really have time or space to process it. Between feeding, healing, and learning how to be a mum, there was no room to talk about my birth.

I wish we spoke about this more. The messy, raw, frightening parts of birth. Not to scare people — but to prepare them. To remind new mums that they're not alone if they didn't get the birth story they dreamed of. 

Because yes, birth can be beautiful. But it can also be brutal. And both can be true at the same time.

We need to start separating the trauma of birth from the love we feel for our babies. Talking about what broke us doesn't mean we love them any less. It means we're human. 

So let's talk about it — for the mums who are still replaying those moments in their heads, wondering why no one else seems to understand. You're not ungrateful. You're not broken. You just went through something extraordinary — and sometimes, extraordinary hurts. 

We need to start saying it out loud: birth trauma is real.

Not just for women who have emergency deliveries or complications — but for anyone whose experience didn't match the fairytale we're sold.

Listen to Diary of a Birth where Leigh Campbell sits down with Jessie Stephens, alongside her husband Rich, to talk about their birth story. Post continues after audio.

It's not weakness. It's not ingratitude. It's a reality that far too many women carry in silence. We can love our babies and still mourn our births.

You can look at your baby and feel pure love, and still feel your body flinch at the memory of how they arrived. 

Talking about that doesn't make you ungrateful. It makes you honest. 

And honesty is where healing — and social change — begins. 

Birth trauma shouldn't be something women just "get over." It should be something we talk about, heal from, and change systems around. 

Because birth shouldn't break us. And if it does, we should be allowed to say so — loudly.

The author of this story is known to Mamamia but remained anonymous for privacy purposes.

Want to find out more birth stories? Read these next:

• CLARE STEPHENS: 'I did everything to avoid a traumatic birth. Then I had one.'

• 'I've interviewed over 300 women about their pregnancy and birth. Here's what I've learnt.'

• I asked 11 mums what they'd do differently after giving birth. Here's what they said.

Feature image: Getty.