Birthing in the Feminine: The Story of Manija’s Arrival

On the night of December 6th, after weeks of preparing my body and home, I knew: my daughter was coming.

The signs had been subtle at first. A lost mucus plug earlier that week, a dream that placed her arrival on the 8th, a quiet intuition that kept saying, “Get ready.” I spent that Friday walking, lunging, drinking red raspberry tea, and doing everything I could to encourage a smooth, gentle birth. I’d been taking primrose oil and eating dates since week 36. But more than anything, I was getting still.

That evening, I had my last client session. as I spoke to her, I felt the first true contractions begin—soft, steady, nothing dramatic. Afterward, I turned off the lights, crawled into bed, and let my body guide me.

By 10 p.m., they were no longer subtle. Still spaced out, but stronger. I started timing them. I called the midwife. She told me to rest as much as I could. I tried—but the intensity grew. Between contractions, I felt surrounded—not just by the people in my life, but by the women who came before me. My birth mother. My grandmothers. Matilde. Edna. Mani. Mehera. They were with me in the room. Each wave felt like they were helping me pull Mani’s soul into this world.

Around 1:30 a.m., the contractions were 5–6 minutes apart. I got out of bed and quietly told Vanessa (my spiritual adopted mother in this life) and Laurent, her husband that it was time. I moved through the house gathering things: Baba, my spiritual master in this life’s photo and his beads. I showered. I even blew dry my hair, shaved, moisturized, and put on earrings between contractions—not because I needed to look good, but because I wanted to feel like myself. Strong. Centered. Ready.

Then the back labor hit—sharp, grinding, and impossible to ignore. Unlike the steady rhythm of the earlier contractions, this pain clawed up my spine and took my breath away. I moved between the ball and different positions, trying to find something—anything—that offered relief. Eventually, I had no choice but to lie down. Vanessa stayed close, massaging magnesium into my back as I groaned, breathed, and tried to stay grounded inside the intensity.

Michelle—Auntie Meeshie—arrived just in time. She rubbed my back, timed my contractions, and whispered support. By now I was in the bathtub, vocalizing with each wave. Around noon, we knew it was time to go. That 30-minute car ride to the Birth Center was brutal. I was screaming through each contraction. I held onto Baba’s name like a rope.

When we arrived, the midwife was waiting. I was already 8 cm. They let me get into the tub. Michelle turned on Adrienne Shamszad, my dear friend's music. Baba’s photos were set around the room. The water softened everything. I could laugh between contractions. I breathed. I dropped in.

Then something shifted.

Around 2 p.m., I felt it—the need to push. I asked how you know when it’s time, and as soon as the words left my mouth, my body answered. The next 40 minutes were a blur. I left my body and came back. I pushed seated, then squatted, then shifted to all fours. Michelle pressed into my lower back while Vanessa held space. I shouted. I cried out. I swore. I felt the “ring of fire” and yelled, “My vagina!” because it felt like I was going to split in half. Then—one final push—and Mani shot out of me like a comet.

She was born “en caul”—still in her amniotic sac. They placed her on my chest. The song “I Am Beautiful” was playing. She didn’t cry. She looked straight at me. I whispered Baba’s name—the first words she ever heard.

And I knew her.

Not as something new. As something eternal.

There were no tears, just the deepest, most natural love I’ve ever known. Like returning to someone I had always loved. She reached for my Baba necklace. She was home.

The placenta came quickly. The bleeding was heavy, but my body handled it. Michelle held my hand while I got stitched up. Two second-degree tears. Still, all I felt was strength. And stillness.

We FaceTimed family. Took our first photos. Mani wore a necklace that was mine since I was 16 and was laid on Baba's tomb. It had been meant for her all along.

We brought her home that evening. She slept through the night in my arms. I barely slept. I stared. I memorized her. I said, “Welcome to the world.”

That was the moment I became a mother. Not just to Mani, but to myself. To the woman who birthed through pain, through power, through surrender.

To every woman reading this: birth is not just a moment. It’s an initiation. Whether you’re birthing a child, a new self, or a dream—you’re allowed to do it your way. Supported. Resourced. Grounded. And deeply, deeply human.

This was mine. And I wouldn’t change a thing.