Glory Births #5: The Redemptive VBAC

She had been so close.

The memory still lived in her body—every hour of it. The forty-five hours of effort. Of rising contractions. Of clinging to hope. Of believing that her body was made for this. She labored with strength and faith, progressing slowly but steadily. By the time she reached the pushing phase, tears had already come more than once—tears of relief that the end was near, that her baby would soon be in her arms.

But then—the monitor.A drop in heart tones.A shift in the room.A chill in the air.

What was once a quiet, sacred space became chaotic. Scrubs. Gloves. Masks. Words were spoken quickly over her head. Her voice tried to ask questions, but was drowned by urgency. She had no control. Just moments earlier, she had been bearing down, believing the next push would bring her baby earthside. Now, she was being rushed into surgery.

The room went quiet except for the beeping coming from the iv pole.

She will never forget the feeling of being pinned down, arms stretched wide on the OR table, her body numb but her heart aching with an intensity she didn’t know possible. Her husband’s eyes were wide with worry. Her tears fell silently as the hum of the machine filled the sterile room. And then—a cry. Her baby was here. Safe.

But the joy came wrapped in grief.

In the weeks that followed, well-meaning voices reminded her of what mattered most. “A healthy baby is all that counts.”But she couldn’t shake the haunting truth: she had fought for that birth. She had opened herself, poured herself out—and it had ended with her body being opened instead. It felt like she had failed, though no one said those words aloud.

And so she carried that wound. Not visible to most. But deeply felt.

A positive pregnancy test and thoughts of the future.

When she became pregnant again, everything resurfaced—the fear, the doubt, the unspoken ache. Would her body fail her again? Would history repeat itself? Could she do this?

But this time, something was different.

This time, she chose to bring a doula into her story—an experienced, compassionate guide who didn’t just understand birth… she understood trauma. This doula didn’t come with quick fixes or lofty promises. She came with presence. With gentleness.

With belief.

Together, they worked through the memories. They spoke openly about the birth that had left her feeling broken. And slowly, brick by brick, they rebuilt trust. Trust in her body. Trust in the process. Trust in herself.

Her doula reminded her, "You are not broken. You are wise. You are strong. And this birth will not be the same."

When labor began again, there was a stillness in her. A readiness. It started softly, a quiet rhythm whispering, It’s time. And with each wave, she didn’t shrink—she rose.

Her doula was there. Quietly watching, gently guiding. Not controlling, but anchoring. Offering her grounding hands, affirming words, and a calm, confident presence that wrapped around her like safety.

Labor was different this time. It didn’t drag like before—it moved. Purposefully. Powerfully. Her body flowed through the intensity with surprising clarity.

Only three hours into active labor, and the energy in the room shifted again—but this time, not in fear. In awe.

She was complete. Ready. And pushing.

No monitors screaming. No rushing. No panic.

Just the quiet, sacred sounds of a woman reclaiming her story.

With her doula whispering strength into her ear, her husband gripping her hand, and her own power surging through her being, she pushed her baby into the world. On her own terms.

She reached down and brought her baby to her chest with her own hands. She laughed. She sobbed. She clung to her baby and to the moment she thought might never come.

The beauty of birth, fresh and first touch from mom.

This was not just a VBAC. This was a sacred undoing of every whispered lie that told her she couldn’t. This was a restoration. A rewriting. A redemption.

Her doula knelt beside her, eyes wet with tears. Not because she had “delivered” anything—but because she had witnessed a rebirth. The rebirth of a mother’s confidence. A woman's power. A heart made whole.

Glory filled the room. Not loud or showy—but thick with peace, rich with joy. The kind of glory that settles into the deepest places and says, You are safe now. You did it. You were never broken.

This was her glory birth.

Not because it was perfect. But because it was healing.Because it was hers.Because she was seen. Supported. Believed in.

And because she finally believed in herself again.

VBAC victory for this mom! Congratulations!

*While this story reflects the real experiences of several clients,

it is a freelance piece by Angela Jenks.

It draws from her work as a doula—

moments she’s witnessed firsthand

and stories generously shared with her along the way.