By Lovetti Lafua
Nurse • Midwife • Biologist • Maternal Health Advocate • Human Optimization Researcher

I was raised in a community where women carried women.

Birth was never a clinical event. It was communal.

It was experienced through hands pressing gently into a labouring woman’s lower back, aunties whispering prayers between contractions, and the comforting aroma of food simmering in the kitchen while new life entered the world.

When I had my first baby, I was held.

My mother was there. My family surrounded me. There were loving arms ready to receive my child and experienced women who simply said, “Sleep. We’ve got you.”

That is how birth is meant to feel.

When a Midwife Gives Birth Alone

Life, however, took a different turn.

I gave birth to my second, third, and fourth children alone.

There was no one to call. No one to hold my hand. No one to reassure me that everything would be okay.

The first birth I experienced alone was at 3:12 a.m. in June. The house was silent, yet the labour was powerful. My body knew exactly what to do, even when my heart longed for another woman’s presence.

The second came one September afternoon at 4:40 p.m. My baby weighed over four kilograms strong, grounded, and requiring a level of strength I didn’t know I still possessed.

Then came my fourth child, the birth I consciously planned. She arrived at 1:59 p.m. in August—one minute before two o’clock, just as I had quietly asked her not to come any later.

Yes, I spoke to my womb.

Yes, I calculated.

Yes, I was searching for some sense of control after years of physical and emotional exhaustion.

Each birth strengthened me.

But resilience without support eventually becomes survival.

And survival is not the same as thriving.

The Silent Burnout of Strong Women

Midwives are often described as strong.

Resilient.

Capable.

Unshakeable.

But what happens when the strong woman has no one to hold her?

There were sleepless nights.

Breasts painfully engorged with milk.

Tears that no one ever witnessed.

Questions I carried in silence.

I remember leaving the house with dishes still piled in the sink, my body aching from birth, simply to walk my daughter to school and make sure she had food.

For years, that became my rhythm:

Function. Endure. Repeat.

Strength slowly became armour.

Hypervigilance replaced rest.

Protection replaced softness.

The Hidden Labour After Home Birth

Few people talk about what happens after a home birth.

The paperwork.

The birth registration.

The hospital appointments.

The subtle judgement.

“You had a home birth?”

“You’re not immunising?”

“Why would you choose that?”

When you are already sleep-deprived, physically healing, and emotionally vulnerable, these encounters can feel less like support and more like interrogation.

Home birth requires documentation.

Advocacy requires emotional stamina.

Autonomy often invites scrutiny.

When you carry all of that alone, the weight is immense.

Why Postpartum Support Matters

Would I want another woman to experience motherhood the way I did?

No.

Not the isolation.

Not the silent burnout.

Not the relentless expectation to “bounce back.”

Women were never meant to mother alone.

Postpartum care is not a luxury.

Community support is not a weakness.

Rest is not indulgence.

These are biological necessities.

When mothers are cared for, families flourish. When mothers are supported, communities become healthier. Caring for women after birth is not an optional extra it is one of the foundations of maternal and infant wellbeing.

How My Story Shaped My Work

My experiences profoundly shaped the work I do today.

They are why I advocate for:

Community-centred birth
Strong postpartum support systems
Emotional resilience in motherhood
Respectful, evidence-informed maternal healthcare
Women’s right to informed choice

My story is not one of victimhood.

It is a story of transformation.

Yes, I am resilient.

But I no longer glorify silent endurance.

Midwives are not superhuman.

Strong women still need softness.

And mothers deserve care not just expectations.

Because every woman deserves to be held, just as I was held when I first became a mother.

That is how birth and motherhood were always meant to be.

Lovetti Lafua