Instead, it felt sacred.
My skin burned with heat despite the cool air.
Sweat collected at my temples and slid down the sides of my face.
My hospital gown clung to my body.
Each contraction tightened around my abdomen like an iron band squeezing tighter and tighter.
Breathing became harder.
Shorter.
More instinctive than controlled.
A nurse stood to my left — eyes focused on the fetal monitor beside me.
The machine beeped steadily.
Strong heartbeat.
Reassuring rhythm.
Another nurse stood on my right, holding my hand with calm professionalism — grounding me when pain threatened to pull me under.
Between my legs — beneath the sterile blue drape — the senior midwife positioned herself carefully.
Gloved hands ready.
Eyes focused.
Confident.
“You’re doing beautifully, Elena,” she said firmly but warmly.
I wanted to laugh at the irony.
Beautiful wasn’t how I felt.
Broken.
Exposed.
Powerful.
Terrified.
“The baby’s head is right there — crowning already.”
My breath caught.
Already?
“Just breathe with me.”
She demonstrated slowly.
“In through your nose.”
