When I realized my husband, Soren, wasn’t listening to me, I knew my birth experience would be a nightmare. But as I lay in labor, in pain and ignored, I made a vow to myself: neither he nor his mom would ever control me again.
I never thought my life would end up like this. Five years ago, I had everything planned out. I had a solid job in marketing, a cozy little apartment, and was head over heels for Soren.
We met at a friend’s housewarming party—one of those random nights that turn your life upside down. We clicked instantly. He was kind, funny, and caring. We’ve been together for six years now, married for two.
Everything changed when I found out I was pregnant with our daughter, Veda. Just thinking about her still makes my heart skip a beat. At first, it felt like a fairy tale. But looking back, I should’ve seen the red flags before Veda came.
When Soren heard about the pregnancy, he got obsessed with having a home birth. His usual easygoing, supportive vibe disappeared. I still remember that first talk.
We were on the couch, me still processing the pregnancy test, when he said, “We should do a home birth.”
I laughed. “Soren, I just found out I’m pregnant. Can we take it one step at a time?”
He wasn’t kidding. “It’s better for the baby, no doctors getting in the way.”
“What if something goes wrong?” I asked, my stomach twisting.
“It won’t. We’ll get a doula, and my mom can help,” he said, like it was settled.
I let it slide, thinking we had plenty of time. I was only six weeks along. But he kept pushing.
Every doctor’s visit, every baby talk—it always came back to the home birth idea.
At appointments, Soren would talk over me. When the doctor asked what I wanted, he’d jump in: “We’re doing a home birth,” smiling like we were on the same page.
But we weren’t.
“Stop it,” I snapped after one visit. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“You don’t need to. It’s the best choice,” he said.
Best for who? I thought. I was the one carrying this baby. That’s when the arguments started. Small ones at first, then bigger. And then his mom, Maris, got involved.
One afternoon, she pulled me aside with a warm smile and a firm tone. “You know, Elara, all the women in our family had home births. It’s our way.”
“I’ve thought about it,” I said, trying to be polite. “But I’m worried something could go wrong.”
“Oh, it’ll be fine,” she said, brushing it off. “You’re overthinking. We’ll be there to help.”
I wanted to yell. Why wasn’t anyone hearing me? By 36 weeks, I was worn out—physically and emotionally.
Soren and Maris acted like I was being silly. I told him I’d go to the hospital alone if I had to. He ignored me.
Then we met the doula. She was pushy too, agreeing with everything Soren said. I sat there, feeling invisible.
At 39 weeks, labor hit. I was terrified. “Soren, please,” I begged. “Take me to the hospital. I don’t feel safe here.”
But he and Maris brushed me off. They called the doula instead.
The pain was brutal. Three days of labor—three days—with 22 hours of agony at the end. It was torture.
I cried the whole time. Something felt wrong, but no one cared. Soren and Maris barely checked on me, popping in and out like it was nothing.
The doula I never wanted said, “If pushing goes past 24 hours, we’ll need the hospital.” I lay there, holding my belly, thinking, I can’t do this. I just want it to stop.
I was scared of pushing for two more hours. But I was just as scared of giving birth in that cold, uncaring room. I just wanted it over.
When Veda was born, it wasn’t magical. I didn’t cry from joy. I cried because it was finally done.
I was too weak to hold her at first. My body felt broken.
At my postpartum check-up, my doctor was stunned. “Elara, we agreed on a hospital birth. What happened?”
“Soren happened,” I said. “He and his mom forced me into it. I didn’t want this.”
She looked upset. “You’re lucky. This could’ve been really bad.”
That hit me hard. I’d gone through something risky just to keep them happy.
Back home, I confronted Soren. “You ruined this for me,” I said, tears streaming. “I’ll never get that moment back. I was terrified the whole time—and it’s your fault.”
He didn’t even look at me. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing. Women are tough. You should’ve handled it.”
“Handled it?” I snapped. “If we ever have another kid—and I’m not sure I want that—it’s not happening at home!”
He shrugged. “We’ll talk about it later.”
That was it. I was done being treated like I didn’t matter by him and his overbearing mom.
A few months later, I acted like everything was okay. I told Soren maybe he was right. “I’ve been thinking… maybe home births aren’t so bad.”
He looked so smug. I even smiled through family dinners and listened to Maris talk about her birth stories. But inside, I was furious.
I had a plan.
The house we lived in? It was mine before we got married. I inherited it from my grandma and never made a big deal about it.
Soren acted like it was his too, but legally, it was mine. And I was going to protect it.
I met with a lawyer. I told him everything—the birth, the pressure, the trauma.
He confirmed the house was mine. He also said I had a strong case for full custody of Veda because of how I’d been treated.
For the first time in months, I felt like myself again.
After one awful dinner where they talked about future kids like I was just a baby factory, I made my decision.
The next morning, as Soren sipped his coffee, I said, “I’m leaving.”
He blinked. “Leaving where?”
“I’m leaving you. You can keep your traditions. I’m done.”
“This is our house, Elara. You can’t kick me out.”
I pulled out the legal papers. “Actually, it’s my house. I talked to a lawyer. I’m keeping it. And I’m filing for custody of Veda. You and your mom don’t get to control me anymore.”
He stared at the papers, shocked. “You’re joking.”
“I’ve never been more serious,” I said. “You have until tomorrow to pack and leave. I’m done.”
Then I walked out of the room—lighter than I’d felt in forever. I was in control. I was free.
