Fifty-Eight Hours (But the First Sixteen Barely Count)

Don’t worry, there’s a baby in the end

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Note to my friends who are currently pregnant: you might want to skip this one for now. Or at least, I hope it is reassuring to know that my doula, who has witnessed more than fifty births, tells me that my experience was unusually intense.

I grew up around extreme athletes: the ones with stories of hallucination after too many days of no sleep, continuing to race with their bodies physically tied to teammates’ so as to not run off of cliffs. This made my own intense pursuits seem normal: physical and mental toughness are requisite in a number of my communities.

So I figured pregnancy and labor would be hard, but not that hard. I can take a lot of pain; I’ve practiced my breath work. I’m strong. Lots of people do it; how hard can it be?

It can, in fact, be significantly more extreme than any sporting event I’ve ever heard of. You have almost no control; it happens to your body on its own schedule and at its own pace. It’s harder to passively accept pain than to merely bear pain you’ve created. And there’s the near guarantee of injury by the end. What maniac would choose this?