{Birth Story} Healing in the Water: The Homebirth of Vada
Vada’s Birth told by Melissa her mum:
Finding out I was pregnant the third time around was such a joyful moment.
I love being pregnant, I love the bump, the flutters, the excitement, the fashion –the first 90 days of vomit, white carbs and sleepless nights are soon forgotten in my experience.
Having the inner secret, between you and your baby feels so magical.
I associate birth with the same twinkly feeling, a sacred place, the alternate universe we travel to collect our babes from the stars and return home. However, my experience in 2020 — a 36-hour, non-medicated hospital labour that I fought so hard for a good outcome - ended in an emergency situation - I knew I must find a better way.
The arrival of our firstborn, Woodrow Finch, was of course wonderful—my first baby, my son, our whole world. But his birth also left me deeply shaken. A third-degree tear, forceps, vacuum, emergency surgery right after he was born, and then being separated from him for six long hours. Everything unfolded so quickly and so terrifyingly around me that I could barely process it at the time. Even, five years later, both the physical and emotional scars still linger.
In those years that followed, we faced new heartbreaks — struggling to conceive again, both my parents becoming unwell, and eventually losing my dad. We conceived in 2023 but lost our baby at thirteen weeks, a pain and torment that thousands of beautiful mummas know well, but impossible to put into words.
Hospitals became a place of grief. The corridors carried more weight than comfort.
When I finally became pregnant again, things had to be different.
I wanted to prioritise peace, my people, my dog, my terms.
I wanted to birth in my own space — at home, where I felt safe enough to surrender to the power and beauty of labour.
We soon found out we were having a girl, and we were elated.
My dad always said he’d hoped I would have a girl, mostly so she could give me a taste of how challenging it was like brining one like me up – and I am confident he sent her to me.
Prior to my daughter’s birth I had done so much reading and researching, I was emersed in birth worlds and I was feeling confident.
I truly get giddy thinking of creating a person from a poppy seed, one similar to me and the person I love most, inside my stomach.
Forget Santa and the Toothfairy– this is a real-life magic show.
On the eve of our due date I took myself, Lucy (our dog) and my large baby bump out for a day date. Us gals walked 7ks to a restaurant nearby where vegetarian for a decade me, ordered a Beef Wagu and all of the other things baby girl was craving at that time. I had so much energy and I was practising surrendering to our experience. I remember walking along the beach, visualising this as be the last time I had with her inside my belly.
That night, Chris and I decided to watch a movie, halfway through I randomly paused it, which we never like to do. But I had a hunch I might need some sleep.
Turns out both my babies have been perfectly punctual, which is funny considering their parents are the absolute opposite.
Sure enough, a few hours later I woke to that unmistakable, period-like cramping.
I remember lying there thinking, this is it. I was shocked and thrilled.
After such a long first birth, with so much intervention, I didn’t take anything for granted.
I assumed this labour would be slow and drawn out.
But I was prepared this time.
For the next two hours, I stayed quiet beside Chris, not waking him yet.
I moved between positions —rocking in child’s pose, rocking my hips — I was dancing and swaying.
Continuously reminding myself – ‘you’ve got this’, ‘it’s not pain, it’s power’
All those affirmations I’d pinned around my birth space, they came to life in my head.
I even found myself enjoying the contractions, enjoying the rhythm and rise of each wave.
I finally understood the pleasure of birth.
How beautiful it was.
By about 4 a.m. I woke Chris and told him I’d been in labour for a few hours.
After processing the irony of being in labour on my due date, he continued his unwavering supportive I’d experience throughout my pregnancy.
From the moment I mentioned a home birth, he’d been on board.
Despite his own trauma from our first birth, the worry of the emergency situation.
His confidence in me — in us — was steadfast.
That morning, he kept that same energy: calm, grounded, practical.
He knew from then all the co-ordination was up to him.
It was go time.
He called our incredible midwife Liz Issacs, and wonderful photographer Nadia Stone.
Everything was playing out as planned.
In that moment the only thing that wasn’t calm? Was my brain.
I remembered we had no food in the house, we literally had no bread.
I became obsessed with the idea that the midwives and photographer would arrive to a 50 hour labour and an empty fridge.
Chris, bless him, understood exactly what was happening — that I needed that mental box ticked before I could truly let go,
Food mission: accepted.
At 7 a.m., he bundled Woody (our five-year-old) into the car, met our photographer, Nadia (for the first time), out the front, and the three of them went for a full cart shop at the little corner store that you never buy more than 5 items from, unless you’re a millionaire.
And (of course) as soon as they left, something shifted.
In hindsight I’d heard labour progresses faster when you’re alone, and that was exactly what happened.
Within the hour, I was deep in the portal
I had my TENS machine on — something I didn’t have with Woody — and I absolutely loved and couldn’t live without. That little boost button became my best friend. By the time Chris, Woody and Nadia returned, I could barely talk through contractions.
Chris called my midwife, Liz, and put her on speaker.
She listened for a moment and then said, “I’m on my way.”
She and the second midwife, Rhiannon, arrived around 8:30 a.m, and from that point on, it was all happening.
It was pouring rain outside — torrential, actually — which felt kind of perfect.
The sound of the rain muffled my moans, and it created this cocoon-like feeling inside our house, nestled amounts the gum trees.
When Liz arrived, she suggested I get into the pool.
I remember being shocked — in my mind, I still had hours (or days!) to go.
I didn’t want to take off my TENS machine, but she gently insisted.
The moment I stepped into that warm water, I understood why. It was instant relief.
The next moment was filled with laughter, Woody, basically bomb diving in and splashing around, eating a red ice block, and completely unbothered by the primal noises coming from his mum.
We’d watched so many birth videos together that he wasn’t scared — just fascinated and proud.
He mimicked my groans, which encouraged laughter for all, even mid-contraction by me.
I was continually surprised how wonderful labour felt in my own home, with my people and surroundings.
Then came a stage where the pain-free novelty wore off and I found myself thinking, “whose idea was this?”, “ you’re an idiot, Melissa”, “why would you choose this”.
Then, almost immediately, another voice inside me whispered, “this must be transition”.
But I didn’t trust myself — I thought I was just hoping it was transition. I even said something out loud, and when the midwives confirmed it, I still didn’t believe them.
What a head game labour is.
Liz asked if I could reach down and feel the baby’s head, I couldn’t — and that confused me.
In my first birth, pushing had been frantic and medical, with no sense of progress.
This time, it was different. I was in control.
In my own space.
No one was touching me, no one was shouting directions.
I was crouched in the pool, using my body and breath with purpose.
Vada’s heart rate dipped, it triggered a rush of memories from Woody’s birth — the panic, the noise, the loss of control.
But this time, I stayed grounded. I had my team, and I trusted them.
Her head crowned — an indescribable intensity — and then finally, her head was born.
I pushed again, desperate to meet her, but Liz reminded me to wait for the next contraction.
Head half in, half out, we just waited.
When the next contraction came, I gave everything and she was born.
At 10.10am, little Miss Vada May floated into the water, and I lifted her up to my chest.
She was quiet — her little body was limp, her skin bluish, her eyes unfocused.
My midwives moved quickly but calmly.
There was no panic - just action.
I tried mouth suction.
Then we moved to resuss oxygen.
She stayed on my chest the whole time — I never let her go.
And even in those terrifying moments, I could feel her heartbeat against mine.
Deep down, I had to go to a place of knowing, and really challenge my beliefs of what may happen in that moment and I choose to believe that she would be okay.
After what felt, a very long time, but was probably ten minutes, her skin became pink.
Her hazel eyes opened, her breathing steadied, and there she was — beautiful, calm, and utterly perfect.
There’s a photo from that moment that I adore: fairy lights twinkling above the pool, her little face glowing, like a tiny angel.
Those minutes were among the scariest of my life, but they were also the most powerful.
Because even when things weren’t ideal, the energy in the room never turned to fear.
There was trust — in me, in my midwives, our team, the process.
People often worry about home birth, commonly stressing: “But what if something goes wrong at home?”
And in our story, that worry had weight — as the ‘wrong’ things played out in real time.
But we had the right people.
Beautiful people with the right qualifications and equipment.
Women with wisdom, who gatekept our sacred moment, trusting birth and not conforming to the scarcity mindset of a system built for profit.
Afterward, the house was filled with giggles and the illuminating awe of birth.
Woody’s face when he saw his sister for the first time is something I will forever be grateful is a moment, captured in time. Eyes wide, curious, and overflowing with love.
Next, without hesitation he jumped straight back in the pool to be with us. To this day he talks about how girls are strong because they have babies, about the moaning noises you have to make when you’re having a baby, about the placenta and even boasting that he wants to help mums and babies when he grows up.
Vada’s birth was at the end of April, so as the days cooled and Winter approached, we watched the chilly air from the beside and didn’t leave the house for six weeks.
Those days were slow and snuggly — just the 4.5 of us, cocooned in our space, surrounded by the people who loved us.
I felt strong. Grateful.
It took me some time to fully feel the joy and achievement — to let it sink into my bones — but when it did, it felt deep and real.
A powerful, raw, birth – just how it is intended.
If you felt something reading this, imagine what it could feel like to have your own birth story remembered forever — discover more here: Birth story