When birth isn’t just a beginning

I walked out of the hospital with two healthy babies. But something inside me had changed — something I didn’t yet recognise or understand. No one tells you that birth can break you — even when everything looks perfect from the outside. I didn’t carry shame. I carried confusion. There were no labels, no language to explain how lost I felt. No one helped me make sense of it.

The moment that changed everything

It was a great day in so many ways. I had two beautiful babies I had longed for—they were my light, and I knew I loved them deeply. But I couldn’t understand why I still felt so off, so different. It was unsettling.

This is a story about trauma, survival, and healing — about how birth can be the start of something darker, and how we find our way back to the light. It was a Saturday night — Australia Day, January 26th, 2002. The height of summer. 

A warm, still evening after another hot day. I was finally back on the road when a car pulled out from a side street and hit mine. I caught sight of her at the last second. I still remember how I braced just before the impact — my body tensing as the seatbelt locked tight across my bump. Then the airbags hit. One to my face, the other across my abdomen. 

I was stunned and in shock. I tried to open the door, but it was stuck. The centre console had crumpled, everything felt jammed, and for a terrifying moment, I thought I was trapped.

One of the cars behind me pulled over. A woman—a midwife—stepped out, along with another bystander. They saw what was happening and came straight over. Together, they forced the door open and helped me out. She spoke gently, calmly, like she already knew what I needed.

Looking back now, I see it differently. I was meant to cross paths with her.

I didn’t know it yet, but I would become a midwife myself.

Panic in the quiet moments

They helped me out of the car and sat me on the side of the road, cramping. I was in shock, just sitting there quietly, hoping the babies were okay. Everything slowed down. When I looked down and saw I was 

wet, my mind raced. Had my waters broken? Was I in labour?

Bystanders were stopping to help, and my husband was called. As I was being wheeled into the ambulance, I heard someone calling my name — crying. My husband smirked. I knew instantly — my Greek mum.

We laugh about it now. But seeing your daughter wheeled into an ambulance, 36 weeks pregnant with twins? That’s confronting.

A body redefined

At the hospital, I was taken into Emergency. My husband was beside me. My parents waited outside. We were all holding our breath, just waiting to hear the babies were okay. When the monitor picked up their heartbeats, that soft, steady beeping… I’ve never felt so relieved. Somehow, I made it to 38 weeks. I gave birth.

The day I broke

The birth had gone well. The babies were weighed, dressed, and cared for. Things had settled, and for a while, I was alone. I could hear them crying — but I couldn’t move. I was still numb from the epidural, stuck in place, unable to respond. That’s when the panic came. It crept in quietly at first, then all at once. My mind spiralled. It was the first time I felt the weight of something I couldn’t yet name. I remember feeling relieved the day they were born. But the next day, the pain started. The headaches were intense. I was in pain constantly. Lifting my head made me nauseous. I couldn’t stand for long, and caring for the babies felt out of reach. I felt like I was watching those first days happen without really being in them.

Learning the language of trauma

The accident had been more jarring than I realised. The impact had cracked my back teeth, and by the time I was in hospital, the pain in my head, neck, and shoulders had settled in. At the time, I didn’t know it, but the accident had torn ligaments in my neck and left me with two bulged discs. Delivering the twins back-to-back had taken more out of me than I expected. I didn’t feel it straight away — but it was there.

I was glad to be home. But beneath the relief, I was grieving. The moment I’d hoped for had passed me by — and I couldn’t get it back.

Healing in layers

Back home, things didn’t improve. I still felt off. On edge. The pain in my head, neck, and shoulders was relentless. I needed medication to manage it enough to get out of bed and look after the babies. The migraines were another story. They came at least three times a week, often leaving me vomiting for hours — sometimes the entire day.

And then there was the panic.

It didn’t come all at once. At first, it was just flickers — a moment of nausea, a flush of dread, a sudden wave of dizziness that would pass just as quickly as it came. I told myself it was exhaustion. Hormones. Stress. But it started to build. The flickers became longer. Sharper. I was tired but couldn’t sleep.

I worried constantly — especially about driving with the babies.

For the mother who looks fine

Then, one day, it hit me — hard. I was in the car, driving the twins to an appointment, when the panic came down on me like a wave I couldn’t outrun. I was approaching the intersection where the accident had happened — and my subconscious had marked it. It was triggering me, and I had no idea. After that, if I had a panic attack, the rest of the day was gone. I’d lose hours to it — foggy, shaky, unable to find my footing. And then one afternoon, it all caught up with me.

It was a Saturday. I called my GP in tears and begged for an appointment. I walked in, sat down, and everything poured out. I cried for two hours while my doctor listened. She reassured me: I was safe. I was a good mum. I was doing my best — and that was enough. Then she referred me to a psychologist.

In therapy, things started to make sense. I was diagnosed with PTSD — directly connected to the accident — and birth trauma layered on top of it. I learned how common it is for trauma to hide in plain sight, especially when you’ve been told you’re one of the lucky ones.

One panic attack hit me especially hard. My thoughts spiralled. I remembered Andrea Yates — her story had stayed with me for years. I still read about her from time to time. Not out of fear — but acknowledgment. Her truth mattered.

I didn’t share my story right away. First, I needed to understand it.

I read everything I could — about PTSD, panic, birth trauma, migraines. I discovered the painkillers I relied on were causing rebound headaches. I had to wean off them, and it was awful.

I started physio. I had steroid injections. I exercised. I stayed in therapy. Slowly, things began to shift.

The panic attacks still came, but they were gentler. Less terrifying. I understood them now. And I wasn’t afraid of them anymore.

Because my PTSD was tied to the birth, I had to desensitize myself — to the accident site, the hospital, even the doctor who delivered my babies. And the soap. That hospital soap. One whiff could send me spiralling. Even now, I sometimes catch that scent in a public bathroom — and feel my stomach turn.

Healing didn’t come all at once. It came in layers.

I’m not the same. But I’m not lost anymore.

That’s why I’m sharing this.

For the mother who looks fine, but isn’t.

For the one afraid to speak up.

Back then, I didn’t have the words.

But I do now.

#JustNotTired

It’s the truth I was carrying beneath the surface.

And now — it’s the message I carry forward.

You’re doing your best. And that is enough.

And if you feel broken — it doesn’t mean you’re failing.

It means you’re human.

Author Bio

The Real Midwife is a registered midwife, twin mum, and passionate advocate for maternal mental health. Through The Real Midwife platform, she creates space for honest stories and conversations about the hidden side of motherhood.