The C-Section Complex
The hardest part of my C-section wasn't the surgery. It was believing I'd somehow skipped the right to recover.
A few weeks ago, I became a mum.
I also became a patient.
It’s funny how quickly I forgot the second part.
Before Elke was born, I’d made the decision to have an elective caesarean.
It wasn’t a decision I made lightly. I researched it. I spoke to my obstetrician. I weighed up the risks and benefits. I thought about my anxiety, my personality, my family history and what I knew would make me feel safest and most in control.
For me, it was the right decision.
I don’t regret it for a second.
But here’s what’s surprised me, what’s brought me to writing this post…
Long before Elke was born, I’d already started feeling this strange, underlying sense of shame.
Whenever someone asked about my birth plan, I found myself immediately launching into an explanation.
“I’m having an elective C-section because...”
Then I’d list my reasons.
Almost like I was pleading my case before anyone had even put me on trial.
I’d explain my anxiety.
I’d explain that my obstetrician supported it.
I’d explain that it was the right choice for me.
I’d explain.
Explain.
Explain.
As though choosing how my own daughter entered the world required a defence.
The funny thing is, nobody was asking me to justify it.
At least, not out loud.
Somewhere along the way, I’d internalised the idea that a caesarean was something you only “deserved” if you had enough reasons.
That there was some invisible hierarchy of birth.
That vaginal birth sat at the top.
Emergency caesareans somewhere underneath.
And elective caesareans...
Well.
Were they cheating?
Taking the easy way out?
Even writing those words makes me cringe.
Because intellectually, I know they’re ridiculous.
Emotionally?
Apparently not.
I’d notice it in conversations with other mums.
They’d swap birth stories.
Talk about contractions.
Transition.
Pushing.
The moment they finally got their baby onto their chest.
I’d listen, fascinated.
But I’d also go strangely quiet.
I never felt like I belonged in the conversation.
Like when it was my turn, I wouldn’t really be earning my place.
As though my experience would count a little bit less.
As though I was about to skip a chapter everyone else had lived through.
Again...
Nobody ever made me feel that way.
I did.
And that’s what’s so fascinating.
Because where did that come from?
Who taught me that?
What had I absorbed over thirty-eight years that made me quietly believe there was somehow a “better” way to become a mother?
I don’t have the answer.
But I suspect I’m not the only woman carrying it.
Then Elke arrived.
The surgery itself was everything I’d hoped for.
Calm.
Gentle.
Joyful.
Within minutes, she was here.
Perfect.
Healthy.
The greatest love I’d ever known.
The surgery took around fifteen minutes.
Then another forty-five or so while my incredible obstetrician, Dr Amanda Ward, carefully stitched me back together.
And somewhere in my brain, I think I decided...
“Well, that wasn’t so bad.”
Which meant...
I didn’t deserve to rest.
Because how could I?
Women labour for twenty hours.
Thirty hours.
Some push for days.
Some experience unimaginable trauma.
Mine took an hour.
Who was I to complain?
Who was I to stay in bed?
Who was I to ask for help?
Who was I to nap?
Who was I to not carry things?
Who was I to take it easy?
So I didn’t.
I tried to carry on.
Business as usual.
I answered work emails.
I walked around.
I bent.
I lifted.
I tidied.
I ignored my obstetrician.
Ignored the midwives.
Ignored my partner.
Ignored my mother-in-law.
Ignored every single person who told me...
“Rest.”
Because somewhere deep down, I didn’t think I’d earned it.
Until my body made the decision for me.
A few days later, I was hit with the most excruciating white-hot nerve pain I’ve ever experienced.
It stopped me in my tracks.
I couldn’t stand upright.
Walking was agony.
Even sitting hurt.
I was screaming in pain just trying to get into bed.
I remember crying in the shower, bent over, wondering what on earth I’d done to myself.
The answer was simple.
Too much.
Too soon.
I hadn’t listened.
Because I was trying to prove something.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
I chose a caesarean because I wanted to feel safe.
Then I sabotaged my own recovery because I didn’t think I’d suffered enough to deserve one.
Isn’t that wild!?
That even in 2026, women can still carry silent shame over how they give birth.
We’ve made incredible progress in so many areas.
We’re told every birth is valid.
Every journey is different.
There’s no prize for suffering.
And yet...
Somehow...
Many of us still seem to believe there is.
Maybe it’s because birth has become another thing women feel judged for.
Too much intervention.
Not enough intervention.
Too medicated.
Not medicated enough.
Breastfeed.
Bottle feed.
Co-sleep.
Sleep train.
You simply cannot win.
Motherhood seems to come with an invisible scoreboard that nobody asked to play.
But perhaps nowhere is that scoreboard harsher than in our own minds.
Because the truth is this.
I didn’t just have a baby.
I had major abdominal surgery.
Eight layers of skin.
Fat.
Fascia.
Muscle.
Peritoneum.
Uterus.
All cut through.
Then stitched back together.
If I’d had that exact operation for any other reason, nobody would expect me to be up making meals, lifting a tiny human every two hours, surviving on broken sleep and learning an entirely new job before I’d even left hospital.
Yet that’s exactly what we ask of new mothers.
A caesarean is one of the only major surgeries where you leave recovery not with a certificate and six weeks off work...
But with a newborn.
Congratulations.
Here’s the love of your life.
Now feed them.
Rock them.
Change them.
Carry them.
Bleed.
Wear an adult nappy.
Sleep in forty-five-minute increments.
Good luck.
When you look at it like that, it’s almost absurd.
And yet so many of us still minimise what our bodies have been through.
So if you’re reading this as a fellow C-section mum, or you’re about to become one...
Can I tell you something I wish I’d believed myself?
You deserve to rest.
Not because your birth was hard enough.
Not because you’ve ticked some arbitrary suffering box.
Simply because you’ve had major surgery.
Your body isn’t being lazy.
It’s healing.
Those are two very different things.
Let people make you meals.
Let them carry the groceries.
Let them fold the washing.
Let them cuddle the baby while you sleep.
Let your body do what it desperately wants to do.
Recover.
Because here’s what I’ve learnt in these few short (and yet somehow, loooonnngggg) weeks:
Rest isn’t something you earn through suffering.
It’s something your body requires after healing.
And no matter how your baby entered the world...
You deserve every minute of it.