This is my first pregnancy. In talking to women who’ve given birth before, I’ve noticed they often use the word “natural” to describe their delivery, as in, “I didn’t give birth naturally.” I’ve also noticed that everyone has their own definition of this word. Caesarean sections, episiotomies, epidurals… the women in my circle all associate these procedures with an “unnatural” childbirth. They often look downcast, like they somehow failed, like they’re ashamed, like they didn’t get it right. 

The word “natural” annoys me because, if you ask me, not only is it inaccurate, but it’s also closely tied to personal values. It gets my hackles up every time I hear a woman talk about her delivery in those terms. As though it were morally reprehensible to involve medical procedures in bringing a child into the world. When we talk about natural products, we necessarily compare them to synthetic, chemical or modified products. So what exactly are we referring to when we talk about an “unnatural” childbirth? A delivery involving synthetic products? It doesn’t sound very “glamorous” to say “I gave birth chemically.”

And I’d find it strange to hear a couple describing their sex life as “unnatural” because they use the birth control pill or other hormonal contraceptive. There’s something wrong with this picture. 

As though using synthetic birth control methods were a perfectly acceptable personal choice, but wanting to use medications or medical procedures during childbirth is not.

Certain choices and values are perceived as more noble than others.

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I wonder how much control and choice you really have during childbirth—just like you can’t predict the winds when you go out on a boat. Regardless of our choices when we first set out, we’re forced to ride the waves with whatever tools and resources are at our disposal. From the moment we become parents, we’re already wracked with guilt about not being able to control everything, and that’s really a terrible shame. But I don’t think it’s a question of wanting it enough.

I felt the same guilt when I found out I was pregnant while undergoing fertility treatments. After almost two years of trying to conceive “naturally,” I finally qualified for medical assistance. But during all those months I spent hoping it would finally happen, my friends and family often implied that my fertility was something I could control, that I wouldn’t get pregnant simply by wishing for it to happen, that I should just stop thinking about it and give up on my dream. Only then could my body open itself up to the possibility of conceiving. Essentially the polar opposite of the message in the book The Secret, which suggests you should manifest the things you desire, but with the same amount of scientific evidence. I don’t blame them for their reasoning—after all, they must have felt helpless, too. 

No one ever asked me the reasons for my personal choices. Ultimately, there was a medical cause for my infertility and seeking medical treatment seemed like a logical decision. Guess what? It turns out I was actually pregnant when I started my first round of fertility treatments. Talk about validating the beliefs that had been foisted on me, namely that infertility and fertility are things a woman can control. Which reeks of the statement by a late American politician who once said that “legitimate rape” victims cannot get pregnant because “the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down”. In my opinion, it’s absurd to think a woman can decide not to get pregnant by sheer force of will alone, just as it’s total nonsense to think the opposite.

People were thrilled for me when they found out I got pregnant “naturally.” But I was just relieved to finally be pregnant, and annoyed at becoming the latest example of the couple who conceived just before starting fertility treatments. You know, the couple who go on a trip and come home to discover the woman is pregnant? Or the couple who find out they’re pregnant just after starting fertility treatments? Those kinds of examples, which made me feel powerless and invalidated all my effort, were now part of the fabric of my story.

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I often wonder if there’s something mystical about pregnancy, the symbol of fertility, symbiosis and abundance, like Gaia or Mother Nature. We become round, like a planet, and create a new world. Maybe that’s why some people use the word “natural” when referring to everything from conception to childbirth. We talk about the “natural” order of things, effectively excluding women who elect to have a C-section instead of a vaginal delivery.

Pregnancy intrigues and mystifies. My boyfriend uses the word “magnetic” to describe his almost irresistible urge to touch my (or any other!) pregnant belly. Like the apostles who were compelled to touch Christ’s stigmata, I feel like we’re drawn to touch a pregnant woman’s belly to certify that a miracle has indeed taken place. Symbolically, I believe every pregnant woman is in some way the incarnation of a divine power, a little Gaia.

In her book The Power of Vulnerability, psychologist and researcher Brené Brown says of religion: “In an uncertain world, we often feel desperate for absolutes. It’s the human response to fear.” 

Perhaps the reason we try to control our fear of labour and delivery is because we’re so eager to define the “right” way to give birth.

I feel like it’s gripping not only for the woman who’s about to experience it, but also for everyone who can mentally picture childbirth.

Back in the days when all births were “natural,” I wonder if they were quite so hyped up and idealized. My wish would be to eliminate the word “natural” from our conversations surrounding conception and birth. Because as long as it’s part of our vocabulary, I think it will be difficult to have a more inclusive, more flawed and more empathetic vision of conception.