This beautifully-written story is a tear-jerker, in the best possible way. New mama Belen details her baby’s birth beginning with early labor and attending her last prenatal yoga class. Has anyone else felt this way about their prenatal yoga classes at Blooma?

The realization that this would be my last prenatal yoga class was very hard for me. I had grown roots in that room, become strong and grounded and I wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye. I wasn’t ready! I was now one of the women crossing over to the other side that you would wonder about the next week when she didn’t show up for class … I left tears of joy and sadness on my mat that morning and quietly left behind thoughts of peace for each of the mommas with whom I had shared that sacred space.

Wait until you see what happens when this mom-to-be occupies herself through early labor (just like you’re supposed to!) and learns to tune into her body and intuition, with the support of a fabulous birthing team.

We offer a BIG congratulations to Belen on the birth of her sweet baby boy. And we are so, so honored that Blooma provided a sacred space for you to grow roots, grow your baby, find your breath, and grow into motherhood. You did it!

Love,

Alisa, Sarah & the women of Blooma
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{by Belen}

“I’m not going to miss the Bun Run,” I thought to myself as reached through the darkness to find my phone so I could time my first set of real contractions. It was midnight on my birthday; the evening fall air was crisp and refreshing coming in gently through the open bedroom window. I clinched the side of my bed as each contraction rose, and began to cry. It was starting.

I took a series of long, diaphragmic breaths and tried to soften my tense body. I made it peacefully through the first sets of early surges during those twilight hours, focusing my attention on the poetic ebbs of my breath and the light of a street lamp casting a shadow of the trees onto the venetian blinds.

There is a tradition in my running club of celebrating birthdays with a 6 a.m. schlogg around Lake of the Isles ending at Isles Bun Company just as they open their doors for the day. We then devour warm, freshly baked cinnamon rolls and Puppy Dog Tails — gobbing on extra frosting (guilt-free) at our leisure from the self-serve container they have placed on the counter.

I had been running all the way through my pregnancy and was stoked as the weeks drew closer to my due date that I was still feeling great while running. I finished an 8-mile run feeling amazing just five days prior and was optimistic about running my birthday Bun Run … until that first wave woke me from my sleep.

I proceeded to contract every 6-10 minutes with contractions lasting anywhere from 30-60 seconds. They were sporadic, so I knew I was only in the beginning stage of labor. I hunkered down, embraced on all sides by my fortress of pillows. I scrolled through my playlists to find my friends’ recording of the San Simeon Bay Ocean waves, and continued to breathe in and breath out to the slow rhythm of each crashing wave.

At 5:15 a.m. I got out of bed and got dressed for the Bun Run. I texted one of my running partners to tell her that my labor had started and that sadly, I would be walking the Bun Run. I remembered being told that one should keep occupied during that early stage and to keep your body moving – So I did. I had a feeling it was going to be a long day.

The morning was dark and slightly humid. A thin layer of mist rose from the lake as dawn began to break. The runners schlogged and I walked with my running partner, Steph, breathing and talking through the contractions as if they were a nagging menstrual cramp.

I called Dr. Emily, my OB and dear college friend who I had met at JFK on our way to study abroad in Spain 13 years ago. I described to her in great detail all that was going on. “It’s still early buddy,” she whispered. “Drink lots of water and get some rest today. I’ll check in with you a little later.”

Back at IBC, phone in hand, I drank my coffee, ate my Puppy Dog Tails and continued to time the contractions — yes, there’s an app for that. Everyone was convinced I would be sharing a birthday with my son.

It was Friday. I had been practicing prenatal yoga every Friday since early on in my pregnancy. Angela, my Friday morning teacher, was also my doula, so it was very comforting to be able to walk into Blooma that morning, slide my flip-flops off at the door and tell her he was coming soon.

I was distracted and without rhythm throughout that hour of prenatal yoga. I struggled to settle into poses that I usually practiced with ease and found myself seeking rest in tabletop over and over as I was met with each contraction. The realization that this would be my last prenatal yoga class was very hard for me. I had grown roots in that room, become strong and grounded and I wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye. I wasn’t ready! I was now one of the women crossing over to the other side that you would wonder about the next week when she didn’t show up for class.

Settling into warrior two, I gazed long and hard at the small sign on the windowsill for the last time. “She believed she could, so she did.” I left tears of joy and sadness on my mat that morning and quietly left behind thoughts of peace for each of the mommas with whom I had shared that sacred space.

The clock did not stop. Every 6-9 minutes I would have to pause and breathe in that moment. The day was divided into hundreds of moments — micro-moments. Never before had I been so focused on such tiny slices of a day.

After yoga, I redeemed my free birthday coffee from Caribou and enjoyed a bagel with some classmates. My phone was exploding with phone calls, text messages and Facebook dings. “I think tomorrow is a full moon,” one of the women said. “Then he will definitely be coming tomorrow,” I said. “He doesn’t want to share a birthday.”

At this point in the day, I was hit by a strange reality: My life was expiring.

It was the end of the month; the end of my 33rd year. My smoke detectors were chirping for new batteries, my rent was due, my credit cards were expiring, my license was expiring, my tabs were expiring — my pregnancy was expiring.

“I’m not ready!” I kept saying to myself. “He’s not supposed to be here yet.” I had mentally prepared for him to be late – not early!

Next stop – the DMV. I pulled out the full-on waddle for this one. I was certain that as a pregnant woman IN LABOR I could get in and out of the DMV in record time. Well, apparently not in Minnesota. I took my number, quietly went up to the counter and asked if it were possible to be helped ahead of someone due to the fact that I was in labor and sitting was quite uncomfortable.

I was told, “There are many others in line in front of you. If you have a medical condition, you should go to the hospital.” So I sat in that hard, black plastic chair for an hour and a half breathing loudly, shifting my body abruptly in discomfort and timing contractions every 6-9 minutes. I sure hope my “glow” came through in that picture.

So much for rest.

As promised, a birthday celebration was in order and I had planned on a glass of wine at “Heidi’s Crack-house” — aka, my passionate wine-loving chiropractor’s home (the “crack” house) where I had spent every week of my pregnancy getting adjusted. Due to the addition of contractions to the guest list, she and another friend decided to bring the party (and the wine) to me!

Nine months ago, I traveled to Argentina to scout Malbecs for my work in the wine industry. It just so happened that Heidi was nomading in Mendoza at the same time, also enjoying one of her passions — vino. It was on this trip, over coffee one morning, in her rented apartment in Mendoza, that I confirmed I was pregnant. Now, here we sat, nine months later, toasting to life with an Argentine rose and a contraction timer during my twentieth hour of labor.

She had packed a bag and was planning on staying the night to keep me company. I hadn’t even thought to ask.

It felt good to lie down; pillow between my legs, pillow behind my back, pillow supporting my belly. The contractions were starting to intensify and I was finally alone — back where I started 24 hours prior, staring out my bedroom window into the night, phone in hand, religiously timing each contraction.

I had not prepared for the mental chaos of my own expiration date and felt exhausted and overwhelmed. I turned on my Ocean waves, took in a breath of strength and watched the brightly moonlit trees bob and sway through my window.

About 3 a.m., I heard Heidi shuffle into my room. My moaning and muffled whimpering through the pillows had woken her from a room away. I felt a warm hand place counter pressure on my lower back — it felt as though she had temporarily lifted the pain away with her hands. The pressure on my back had become increasingly more intense through the night, so we tried a hot water bottle between my back and the pillow and that too seemed to ease some of the pressure.

At around 5:30a.m. we decided it was time to call Angela, my doula. Heidi put her on speakerphone so she could listen to the intensity of my contractions. Looking at my phone, I scrolled through more than 24 hours of timed contractions and told her they were still the same; sporadic – anywhere from 6-10 minutes apart lasting from 45-60 seconds.

“Stop timing the contractions,” she said, “Be with your breath.” “Feel the peak of the contraction…” I heard her say softly, as a quiet surge of pressure moved from the top of my uterus down through my abdomen, “…and let it go” she said.

From that moment on I relinquished the phone and began to dive into the rhythm of my body, living each micro-moment instead of recording it. And that is when the magic began. That’s the moment where things began to progress on their own and my baby boy and I began to work as a team.

Angela arrived and calmly got me out of bed, coaching me to move and sway through each contraction. “I’m so tired!” I repeated, longing to resume a horizontal position amongst my fortress of pillows. I remember moving from one room to another, changing positions and feeling a very intense wave after each new position. I swayed with one leg rested on the seat of a chair, sat backwards on the toilet, sat forward on the toilet, laid on my side in bed, leaned over the bar-height counter swaying my hips from side to side, squatted, got on my hands and knees and finally walked up and down 3 flights of stairs in my apartment stairwell twice.

By this time, my entire birth support team was at my apartment – my mother, my old next-door neighbor and best girlfriend Lynnie, Heidi and Angela. I was lying on my side resting in my bed when Lynnie arrived. I remember opening my eyes and seeing her just as a contraction started and I could not hold back the tears. She is the friend who taught me about being a mom. As her neighbor, I watched she and her husband raise their first child. She’s the nurturer, and her presence brought me peace and made me feel that everything would be okay. She reminded me I was strong and that I could do this.

I was now going on 36 hours of not being in control of my body and having only the power of my mind and the strength of my spirit to get me through each peak and then….”let it go”…over and over and over again.

“I feel like I need to poop!” I repeated a dozen times. The contractions seemed to be getting more intense and the pressure on my sacrum gave me the sensation that I needed to poop. I was laboring on the toilet at this point, which I found to be the most comfortable place to sit without pressure and it’s a place where the body naturally relaxes. Everyone gathered around as I took over the throne, groaning vocally. I then heard Dr. Emily’s familiar voice on speakerphone.

“How are you doing buddy?” She said. I’m sure my response was without words at this point, which was the answer she was probably waiting for. Everyone stood there, in my small bathroom, staring at the phone as I labored through a few more very strong contractions.

“So,” she said in her serious doctor voice, you’ve been laboring for about 36 hours now … I think it’s time for you to head to the hospital … I will meet you there.”

Everyone began to scurry as if it were the beginning of a scavenger hunt; throwing things in bags, gathering their belongings and searching for the keys. They had all been emotionally ready for that call hours ago.

Angela stayed by my side and eased me off of my porcelain chair. Amidst the chaos my tears took the stage. Angela stopped me and asked why I was crying. “It’s been so long, “ I mumbled. I had no concept of time until I heard Dr. Emily quantify the hours that had patched together my many micro-moments. I was starting to feel discouraged.

She looked me in the eye and with a comforting certainty in her voice, she said, “He’s on his way.”

The road to Maple Grove Hospital was bumpy and Lynnie was not driving the speed limit. It was normally a 25-minute drive and I think we got there in 18. I sat in the back seat trying to sit on my side. I held myself half suspended by the “oh shit” bar with my left hand, DJing from my iPhone in my right hand all while giving Lynnie directions to the hospital and contracting about as often as we hit the rhythmic ruts of the highway.

As we pulled into the hospital, I blared Meaghan Smith’s version of “Here Comes your Man,” undoubtedly frazzling Lynnie as I asked her to turn it up over and over. I walked into Labor and Delivery. The nurse at the receiving desk looked up stoically from her computer, “May I help you?”

“I’m having a baby!!!” I blurted, while clutching the side of the counter mid-contraction.

Once in the dimly lit delivery room, nurse Katy measured my cervix. I was dilated to just 5cm. I had been cautioned throughout my pregnancy not to let that number discourage me — as it is simply that … a number. It could change or remain the same just as a summer storm shifts the direction of the wind in a matter of minutes.

It was 11:30 a.m. on Saturday morning. Dr. Emily arrived just a few minutes after us and wanted to examine me herself. “You’re still measuring 5 cm. On average, you will dilate at a rate of 1 cm per hour, which should have you pushing at around 6 p.m. Your options right now are to wait, break your waters or induce with Pitocin, “ she explained.

Everyone in that room knew I did not want to induce or want any unnecessary medical interventions — it was clearly laid out in my birth wishes that my goal was a natural childbirth. But even I, for a brief moment, wasn’t sure what to do. I stared at the round classroom-style clock on the wall. Something inside of me felt the need for time, so I continued to follow my gut. “Give me an hour,” I said. I wanted to settle into this new space and get comfortable again.

Dr. Emily left to do some rounds and someone suggested I labor in the tub for a while. “Sure, why not,” was my response. I was happy someone else had given me direction in that moment.

I dipped my toes into the deep tub and began to lower my long body into the warm water, which soothed me. Sitting was still uncomfortable, so I grabbed the handicapped handles and held myself suspended on my side as I floated and contracted, floated and contracted. I was really uncomfortable, but somehow my body relaxed. I had a very intense surge that I felt run through my core as I let out a low monotone moan — and all of a sudden — “pop!”

“My water broke! My water broke!”  I yelled with rejuvenated enthusiasm. I was so proud of myself for listening to my gut and could not help but smile. All of a sudden my contractions felt like a 5-car pile up and I realized that sitting in that tub was not where I wanted to be when the fire started. “Get me out of this tub!” I requested with urgency.

I hunched over the bathroom sink swaying. I was now in transition. Lynnie grabbed a headband given to me by my running team that read: Arrrrgh!, and tied it around my wet and knotted hair. I called on my most profound inner strength as things got very intense and painful. “I need to push!” I said between breaths. “Don’t push!!” everyone urged. “It’s too soon to push!”

I really needed to push. Every fiber of my body was telling me to push. It had been a little over an hour since my arrival to hospital, so nurse Katy decided she would check on my progress — “Well, no wonder you feel like you need to push,” she said, “You’re ready to go! You’re at 10 cm!”

If there was a stadium of people somewhere cheering, I could feel them with me at that moment. I was elated! I felt a rush of energy and held that baby in, hanging over the bathroom sink during the next few contractions while they paged Dr. Emily, who arrived shortly after in disbelief.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Dr. Emily suiting up into her sea-foam blue scrubs, a large spaceship-like light dropping down from the ceiling, and a table of metal tools rolled to the foot of my bed. I felt a sense of relief. It was time.

I was surrounded by love. I had an amazing birth support team of women, each of whom cradled an arm or a leg, held my hand and placed a cool washcloth on my forehead. My mother watched quietly from the side as her own daughter prepared to bring a new life into the world.

Dr. Emily calmly coached me on how to push as we waited for the next contraction to start. I was lying at an angle on my side, almost on my back — but not on my back, it was too painful. With the first set of pushes the crowd began to cheer — apparently you could see his head begin to emerge.

There was a mirror, but I couldn’t push and spectate at the same time. “You’re doing great!” everyone said. The energy in the room was amazing. I felt very little pain at this point … just a slight burn toward the end of each series of 10-second pushes as his head crowned a little more with each set.

I had been instructed by Dr. Emily to “melt” between contractions and I fondly remember enjoying each of those 30-60 second breaks between sets of pushes. It was a total body release … I literally melted into the arms of my support team and then pushed with every ounce of energy in my tired body, pulling my knees toward me as if I were doing some circus version of a cannonball. “There’s his head! Do you see it?” they said. I caught a quick glimpse in the mirror as I pushed my abs to their limit.

“Reach down and feel it!” someone said. “Oh! It’s squishy!” I laughed as I touched the top of his head with my right hand. After 6 sets of pushes, I made the last one count and out he slid — two hours after walking into the hospital and 36 hours after my labor began.

“Oh my god! He’s real!” I exclaimed as they placed him on my chest and I felt his tiny, uber-soft bottom squirming in my left hand. I had never experienced softness like that before — with my hands or in my heart.

The room was full of joyful commotion and tears. I was slightly in shock — still trying to make sense of this perfect little being who was once floating inside of me and who now rested between my breasts. Within the duration of what seemed like minutes, Oliver let out a long healthy cry, we cuddled skin-to-skin, my mother cut the cord, I delivered the placenta and my dear friend and amazing Dr. Emily, illuminated by the space-ship light that had come down from the ceiling, sat in her “office” at the foot of the bed sewing me back together with precision and poise.

Beautiful is not a word I would have associated with childbirth until that Saturday afternoon. However, in that dimly lit delivery room, surrounded by the amazing energy of women, encouraged by an incredible support team woven together by the short stories of life, and guided by the sheer strength of my body, my baby and my mind, it was simply that —

Beautiful.

*{A little note from Blooma: We joyfully share birth stories sent to us by Blooma families, however, Blooma does not claim responsibility for and does not endorse individual choices made by families or their care providers. We seek to share an array of birth stories to showcase a wide range of experiences.}