My water broke. We rushed to the hospital under the glow of a full moon. This is perfect, I remember thinking. I’m having a baby. Just like in the movies.

But this wasn’t a movie. And, as the patient nurses at the hospital informed me, my water hadn’t broken. I was so confused. But what about all that clear liquid that came out of me and onto my fiancé’s leg (while we were doing the activity that got us into this mess in the first place)? They laughed. That was probably pee. I was not in labor. But what about the contractions I was having? That was pre-labor. How long does pre-labor last? Could be hours, could be days. Hard to say. This isn’t science. This is labor. They sent us home. We sent ourselves to In-N-Out Burger.

And thus begins my birth story. The most hilarious, terrifying, miraculous, and thrilling experience of my life. And this is coming from someone who once caught Justin Timberlake’s sweaty neck towel during an NSYNC concert. Maybe my birth story only feels worth telling because it’s mine. But still, I feel compelled to share in hopes that other moms out there feel that their birth story is worth telling too. Giving birth (in all its forms) is the most epic, goddess-warrior shit I could ever think of, and no, I didn’t really get it till I did it, but now I do, and so here we go…

I was over a week late and so over being pregnant. I think being sick of being pregnant became my entire personality. So when I went in for a stress test and my OB-GYN noticed a minor drop in my baby’s heart rate and suggested going for an induction that night, I was so stoked! I was embarrassingly fixating on my daughter’s zodiac and really wanted a Libra; this meant she would most likely pop out the very last day of Libra season. Not to mention my parents were arriving the next day, and going for an induction now meant I wouldn’t have to pick them up from the airport in the AM and could avoid the schlep. I cried with relief at the fact that soon I’d no longer be pregnant. Rufus (my baby daddy) cried at the fact that soon we’d be meeting our daughter. Hey, to each their own.

We grabbed some California Chicken Cafe (our OB-GYN insisted we weren’t in a rush!), texted our families an update, and then headed to the hospital so I could give birth to our daughter. Finally, something worth driving to the west side for.

We parked at Labor and Delivery and floated to the third floor. It still hadn’t really hit me. How could it? I felt both totally unprepared for this moment and also like I was born for this shit. Bring it on, baby.

We checked into our room. No windows, but labor means losing all sense of time, so who cares if we couldn’t see the sunset? The outside world truly disappeared. For the foreseeable future, my vagina would be the only view worth taking in.

The thing I remember most about labor were the nurses. I don’t have words to describe how incredibly these women cared for me, for us. Yes, the attending doctor and the residents were great, but the nurses were the ones who were in the trenches with us and really got me through labor. Like the best coaches, they make you feel like you can do anything.

First up was Nurse Savannah, a warm, bubbly blonde, and the start of induction. Induction is when they help kick-start your body into labor. They use a variety of methods—first up, The Balloon. I won’t go into the dirty details, mostly because I’ve blocked them out, but basically they stick a balloon-type thingy inside you to help encourage your cervix to dilate and contractions to start. If Savannah was insisting on torturing me like this, I demanded she at least provide me with some juicy hospital gossip. She divulged how a certain A-list celebrity insisted they shut down the entire unit for her delivery, then revealed some of the worst baby names she’s heard (Snake and Placenta). That helped distract me from the pain, as did digging my nails into Rufus’s arm as hard as I could. But I knew with each contraction I was one step closer to meeting HER. And that got me through. As did the promise of fentanyl, if the pain got too much. (I’m serious!) One episode of “Below Deck” later and it was finally time to take out that evil Balloon. I had been having so much fun gossiping with Savannah, I forgot to ask for the fentanyl. I don’t have many regrets in life, but missing the opportunity to truly party like a rock star will forever haunt me.

Nurse Savannah’s shift ended, and it was time for Nurse Chloe and Pitocin. Chloe wore Marvel superhero pins that adorned her scrubs, which was fitting because she truly was one to me. She warned me that Pitocin was going to intensify the contractions a lot and that I shouldn’t be afraid to ask for the epidural. She promised me that I didn’t need to try to be a hero—I already was one. The Pitocin hit, and yeah, the contractions got more contraction-y. It is truly a pain unlike anything I’ve ever felt, and yet I’ve already totally forgotten it and would give birth again right now. Evolution! Thanks to Nurse Chloe, I didn’t try to tough it out. I got the epidural, and I could still cry tears of joy thinking about the moment it hit. Sweet relief. Thank G-d for drugs. I’d marry my epidural if I wasn’t already engaged.

Night became early morning, and things continued moving along. My cervix was almost fully dilated, and I had some Bloody Show (my favorite labor term). As we moved into the second day, I was fucking exhausted. But I somehow managed enough energy to throw my AirPods across the room at Rufus, whose snoring kept waking me up. My leg was going numb from the epidural, and despite being super nauseous, I was also starving. The end still felt so far away. I was losing hope. But then the attending doctor entered my room, stuck her hand up my vagina, and told me I was fully dilated! We did it! It was finally time to push!

But first, my new nurse Kathy was due for her lunch break. Would I mind waiting a half hour? Sure. I’d waited 39 years, so what was another 30 minutes for Kathy to scarf down a zesty burrito bowl? One of the most fascinating things about birth is how not fascinating it is to other people. For you, it’s the biggest moment of your life, but to others, it’s just a Tuesday morning.

Nurse Kathy was the perfect person to help me push. Calm, positive, and just the right amount of chatty. If I was going to push as hard as I could for as long as I could, I was gonna need to hear all about her passive-aggressive mother-in-law.

And so I pushed like a motherfucker. Finally, all those squats were paying off. Sure, it got a little tiring, but I was finally at the third base of labor; I could see home plate, and I felt like a badass! But as the hours passed, I noticed my OB-GYN growing more concerned every time she came by to check my progress (or lack thereof). It seemed my baby’s head was not descending down far enough. But she assured me not to worry. My baby didn’t wanna leave my uterus—who could blame her? She told me to relax and just keep pushing. So Rufus cranked up the birth mix, and I followed Salt-N-Pepa’s instructions to “Push it real good.”

But as we entered hour three, I could feel the energy in the room fading. Nurse Kathy had run out of stories about her mother-in-law, and Rufus was looking like a cheerleader whose Adderall had worn off mid-game. Despite my relentless pushing, my baby was no closer to my cervix. I was so confused. If she wasn’t gonna drop down, how was she gonna come out? My OB-GYN looked at me and said the two words I’d been dreading all pregnancy: “C-Section.”

I absolutely lost my shit. Nowhere in my birth plan had I prepared myself for this. I’d done everything possible to try and avoid a C-section (including getting induced). I’d worked out most days of my pregnancy, training for a vaginal birth like a marathon. I’d done birth visualizations and even a hilarious attempt at perineal massage. The idea of surgery while you’re awake was the most terrifying thing I could think of. Absolutely, no thank you. There was also some self-judgment: Was a C-section even real labor? Had I failed at birth? I begged to keep pushing. My doctor gave me one more hour and then we would re-evaluate. I prayed to G-d for my baby to drop down and pushed so hard I’m surprised I even still have a butthole.

At hour four, my doctor came back into the room, checked me one last time, and I knew by the look on her face the baby was no closer to descending. I asked with bated breath what she wanted to do, and to her credit, she didn’t hover or bark orders at me. She offered her professional opinion but gave me the dignity of retaining full autonomy over my body. This was my decision to make. She told me that I was welcome to keep pushing—me and the baby were doing fine—but in her professional opinion, it was only gonna frustrate me more. Like drunk texting your ex at a wedding, she believed a C-section was inevitable.

Suddenly, I was hysterical. Inconsolable, even. I felt like I was at a funeral, not a birth. I wanted to scream at G-d, but I was sure at that moment she did not exist. I couldn’t believe my worst-case scenario was now my reality. The tears came and wouldn’t stop. Thankfully, I remembered that my parents were here, eagerly pacing in the waiting room. And even though I was an almost 40-year-old woman, at that moment, I was just a girl who needed her Mommy and Daddy.

Unlike me, my parents were so not freaked out about the surprise C-section, which helped me start to normalize it. My Dad even reminded me that my beloved Grandma Ruth delivered all three of her babies via C-section, which really helped me feel connected to her and like I was carrying on a tradition of sorts. My Grandma Ruth, despite no longer being on this earth, really grounds me.

Ultimately, the decision to have a C-section didn’t feel like a decision at all. I was smart enough to stop thinking, and the answer, like all life’s deepest truths, came from my gut. It was simple. My daughter and I were safe for now, but why wait till things got dicey? It was time to surrender to the process. To accept that the type of birth I didn’t want was the one I was about to have. My spiritual life often consists of “Please G-d, anything but this,” and that’s exactly what I’m forced to walk through. In this case, it was a surprise surgery, where I’d be fully awake, trapped, strapped down, chopped open, only to have my daughter yanked out of me. My greatest fear wrapped around my greatest joy like a pita.

As my tears went from flood to trickle, my OB-GYN approached my bedside. Everyone else faded away. It was just the two of us girls, or three of us girls including the one inside me. She asked me what I wanted to do. I took a deep breath and told her the truth: I was going to do the C-section AND I was really scared about it. She leaned in closer and confessed that my birth story was her story as well. She also had an unplanned C-section and was not happy about it. I felt so connected to her and all the mothers out there doing hard things. She told me to take a few minutes to grieve and then we were gonna go into the operating room and get my daughter! Her mojo was contagious; me and my uterus would have followed her to the ends of the earth.

Then Nurse Kathy shaved my pussy. The C-section prep had begun.

Things got real, real fast. Suddenly, there were a dozen nurses surrounding me, preparing my body for surgery. It was intense but also kind of exciting. It reminded me of when I’m directing, those few sacred moments right before I yell “Action!” when the crew is buzzing around, working at the highest level to ensure perfection within the frame. Rufus changed into scrubs and a hair net, like an extra on “Grey’s Anatomy.” He took my hand and looked at me like no other human has: pure devotion. Despite the numbness from the epidural, I felt a surge of gratitude that out of anyone, it was him.

The OR felt like a movie set, except a little bit cleaner. As they transferred me to the operating table and began numbing me “down there,” the nurses started discussing their weekend plans. Meanwhile, I was on the verge of a panic attack, but this casual chatter immediately put me at ease. Like being a little kid tucked in bed, listening to the adults at a party downstairs.

The next part I only remember in flashes: Uncontrollable full-body shakes, the kind eyes of the anesthesiologist, begging for a pillow, a blue medical sheet going up that separated me from my lower half, Rufus hitting play on my Birth Mix, Stevie Nicks crooning “Mirror in the sky, what is love? Can the child in my heart rise above? Can I sail through the changing ocean tides? Can I handle the seasons of my life? I don’t know…”

Thankfully, I nodded off a bit and was awoken to a sound I’ll never forget. It was a cry, more of a wail, coming out of Rufus. I opened my eyes so I could see what he was seeing. Holy shit. It was our daughter! On the other side of the medical sheet floating through the air like Superman! I was in shock. Then awe. Then relief. I did it. We did it.

The nurses quickly assessed her, dressed her, and Rufus cut her cord. Upon realizing she was no longer in the comfort of my womb, she began to cry. I felt a deep urge in my bones to rush to her, but I was unfortunately still trapped on the operating table, literally getting stitched back together. I then heard the voice of all the baby books emphasizing skin-to-skin between mother and baby RIGHT after birth to ensure bonding. I begged the nurses to let me hold her, but they informed me that I was still shaking like an earthquake from the meds but instead offered to let Rufus hold her, which he eagerly accepted. Some guilt crept in—was I already messing up motherhood by not being able to comfort my own baby?

But then I saw Rufus gently take our baby girl in his arms, and I instantly felt relief, like I always do when Rufus is on the other end of my anxiety. Our daughter was safe and cozy, and I knew this was the way it was always supposed to go. I held her for nine months and now it was his turn. This sequence was a metaphor for our relationship: a true partnership through and through.

As we, now a family of three, recovered in the post-surgical area, my shaking had subsided a bit, and so I begged for the one thing I’d been truly longing for…a turkey sandwich. It’d been over 24 hours since I’d eaten and over nine months without my beloved deli meat. I was beyond starving! But the post-op nurse informed me that I couldn’t eat anything yet as I’d just had major abdominal surgery, but would I like to hold the baby? Sure, why not, I figured—if I can’t have a sandwich, I might as well hold my child for the first time…

As I held my daughter and we made googly eyes at each other, I was speechless. And mostly still am. All I can say is that nothing can prepare you for this kind of love. It’s almost as good as a turkey sandwich.

As I recovered in the hospital under the tender but fierce care of the postpartum nurses, the silver linings of the C-section began to appear. I got a whopping four whole days in the hospital complete with 24-hour care, iron infusions, and lactation consultants. Because I had a C-section, I had minimal bleeding, my daughter has a perfectly shaped head, and I don’t need to learn what a pelvic floor is. I find that if I don’t force the gratitude to come before it’s ready, it will naturally appear on its own. Like my cat wandering inside at the end of the day when she’s ready for her nighttime treats.

So far, the postpartum period has been a sweet, special, sleep-deprived bubble. My daughter and I have been twinning it: both rocking diapers and preferring to do our crying at 3 AM. We’ve truly been healing together. What are the odds that my body calms her down and vice versa? The synchronicity of life! Sure, I’m the mom, but my daughter is already teaching me so much. Like how to go at my own pace, don’t rush the process, and enjoy the simple pleasures in life. Like a warm bottle and a good fart. Like a soldier recently home from battle, I still have flashbacks from the birth, which can be hard, especially when you’re trying to be everything good for someone else. I want my C-section scars, both emotional and literal, to already be fully healed, but that’s not the way life works, baby. But every day I do my best, and so far that’s enough.

This week I went for my six-week postpartum checkup. Thankfully, I’m healing well, but I still have some numbness in my lower belly. My doctor warned me that the nerves in that area may never fully come back. That I might always feel a little off down there, that I might never be the same. And though this news is a bummer, I’m also trying to embrace the poetic symbolism. I’ve given birth. My daughter is here, and I will never be the same. And maybe this new sensation in my belly (or lack thereof) can also serve as a source of strength as I blast off into motherhood. I want to wear my C-section scar like a badge of honor. A reminder that I built my sweet lil family with my body. One cell, tear, laugh, fart, push, and breath at a time. As I transition back to daily life, I vow to keep showing up for my body like she’s shown up for me.

There’s a part of the Hero’s Journey called “The Point of No Return” where the hero fully commits to her quest. She couldn’t return to her old life even if she wanted to. She is all in. My birth story is my point of no return. There’s no going back. I am all in. For me, labor was like an all-you-can-eat buffet (induction, 24 hours of labor, 4 hours of pushing, and an unplanned C-section) I got to taste a little bit of everything. Both beautiful and brutal, in the end labor gave me my two favorite things: my daughter and a great story. What more could I want?

Oh right, a turkey sandwich.