A Single Mother on Welfare Delivered Her 13-Pound Baby on a Bedroom Floor With Nothing But Trust, Choice & Garbage Bags.
You don't need more information. You don't need more permission. You just need to be reminded that the confidence to birth your baby, your way, didn't disappear, or run away, or hitchhike to Timbuktu without you, it was just hidden under all the what-if's and don't-do's that they taught you to be afraid of.
1-hour old, 13.2 pounds
You've watched the videos, read the stories, and researched until sentences looked like strings of glowy-orbs and your nervous system jittered as if you just sucked down five shots of espresso and signed a blood pact with the devils of WebMD.
You want this. You need this. In fact, you've been dreaming about it for a long time.
But somewhere between your own inner curiosity and everyone else's loud opinions, you got lost and overwhelmed.
The internet did what the internet does: handed you seventeen contradicting opinions, three horror stories, and a side of existential dread - and squeezed the certainty right out of you.
You got so deep in the rabbit hole of other people's experiences that somewhere on the way down, your certainty just... left.
And now you're not sure if the fear and nervousness you're feeling is actually yours, or if you just inherited it from their stories and their opinions - from people who were never going to agree or cheer you on anyway.
All of that content, all of those guru-adjacent opinions wrapped in just enough authority to sound convincing, and not one of them told you the truth about what's actually going on inside your own body.
You don't have a birth problem.
You have a belief problem.
Before I tell you what this guide will do for you, let me tell you what it did for me.
I delivered my son at home, unassisted. No doctor. No midwife. No doula. Just me, my mom, a crockpot warming towels, and dental floss eager to be of service as the world's most low-tech medical device.
He weighed 13.2 pounds.
His umbilical cord had a knot in it.
I didn't know either of those things until after he was born.
Nobody died. The earth didn't tilt. Pigs didn't fly. Hell didn't even freeze over.
Forty-five minutes later I squatted over a mixing bowl from the kitchen, pushed out the child-sized placenta, grabbed an overripe banana, jolly skipped my way into the most life-affirming shower of my life, and beamed with a post-birth glow that'll never diminish or shrivel under the weight of "I just can't do this" fears or doubt.
An hour after he was born, I was topless and snuggled on my cushy couch, with my new angel baby tucked into the pitter-pattering warmth of my chest. I feasted on homemade biscuits and gravy like the queen I just remembered I was. He watched and stared and admired... and each newborn squeak and sigh generously refilled my drowsy cup.
There were no monitors. No bright lights. No needles. No drugs. No one telling me what to do, how to sit or how to breathe, or when to push. The only people who touched and loved on my body and my baby for his first two days of life were me and my mom.
But I need to back up for a just a quick second, because the part I left out is the part that matters the most.
I didn't want to be pregnant. I didn't even want to be alive. I was a single mother on welfare and was thissssss close to having an abortion and then ending my life after it. I was running on fumes and borrowed time and absolutely nothing that resembled confidence. There was nothing about my life that suggested I was capable of what I was about to do.
We lived in a low-income apartment with a bathroom the size of a post-it note and carpet that had seen better decades. It was nobody's idea of a glamorous birthing suite, that's for sure.
When he was ready, he whispered to my spirit, and I not-so-gracefully slid my belly mountain off the side of the bed, steadied on both knees, and pushed his monstrous, magnificent body out onto that patchy threadbare floor covered in garbage bags and old sheets.
My mom gently guided him as he slid out and softly swaddled him into a blanket on her chest. He was calm and at peace, having just entered the newness and wonder of his appointed life here on earth, and I could sense it. “Such a long and hard road here, huh, little guy,” I thought.
I carefully maneuvered around his umbilical cord so I could see him better and reach over to rub his chunky cheek. I gazed into his squinty, newborn baby blues, and simply said, “Welcome, little buddy, welcome.”
He looked up at me with that same soulful stare that he did in my dream, the one where we first met, but this time... this time... we were sitting side-by-side soaking in the same force of consecrated humanity.
On that day, on that floor, I was reborn. And this guide is what I wish someone had left on my doorstep before I met me, before I met him, at a time when I was barely holding on and didn't yet know what I was capable of.
something about fear here
Here's the thing about fear: it doesn't walk in screaming.
It walks in with a clipboard. It sounds like your doctor's raised eyebrow. Your mother's soft worry. Your friend who swore her story wasn't meant to scare you — and then scared you. It sounds responsible.
Educated. Like the adult in the room.
And slowly, without asking permission, it stops saying "they say" and starts saying "I think."
Now you're not researching anymore. You're spiraling. Scrolling at midnight. Reading horror stories and calling it preparation. Watching birth videos through your fingers and wondering why you can't just feel ready.
You can't feel ready because you're trying to think your way into trust.
And trust doesn't live in your head.
The women you've watched birth with that quiet, animal confidence — the ones who made you catch your breath and think "I want that" — they didn't get there by finding the right article. They got there by learning to hear their own body over everyone else's noise.
That's not a personality trait. It's a practice. And it's exactly what this guide teaches.
Your body already knows how to do this.
It knew before you did. It's been knowing this whole time.
The only thing standing between you and that knowing is the borrowed fear you've been treating like your own.
Before You Birth is a 130-page guide for the woman who wants to trust herself and just needs someone to show her where she buried it.
It won't tell you where to birth or who to hire. It won't hand you a birth plan or a checklist or a color-coded hospital bag list. It doesn't care about any of that, and definitely not the smell of your candle or if your gown is silk or cotton.
It goes somewhere most birth books never touch: the space between your ears and your sternum, where fear lives and trust gets built.
Inside You'll Find:
The real reason information isn't making you feel more ready — and what actually does.
✅ Why your nervous system is the most important thing you can prepare before labor begins.
✅ How to tell the difference between genuine intuition and borrowed fear wearing a white coat.
✅ Five practices that rewire your relationship to uncertainty — not by eliminating it, but by teaching you to move through it without falling apart.
✅ Anchors for the moments when fear gets loud and your body needs something to hold onto.
✅ And the one thing I wish someone had left on my doorstep before I ever got pregnant.
$57. Instant access. Yours to read and study as many times as you need.
[GET THE GUIDE]
This is for you if:
You've researched everything and still don't feel ready.
You want a homebirth — or an unmedicated birth, or just a birth you're not terrified of — but the voices in your head sound more like everyone else than like you.
You've watched other women birth with confidence and wondered what they know that you don't.
You're tired of preparing everything except the part that actually matters.
You're not looking for permission. You're looking for the door back to yourself.
This is not for you if:
You're looking for medical advice, birth statistics, or someone to tell you where to deliver your baby.
You want a step-by-step birth plan with color-coded contingencies.
You're not ready to question the stories you've been carrying.
The woman who births with confidence didn't find it in a search result.
She found it the same place you're going to find it.
In the quiet underneath all the noise. In the body she stopped fighting long enough to finally hear. In the moment she decided that her knowing mattered more than their fear.
That woman isn't someone else.
She's just a version of you that hasn't been given permission to exist yet.
This is her permission slip.
((((You've already done the hard work — the degree, the experience, the preparation. This is the one layer that's been missing. And every interview that passes without fixing it is a missed offer you'll never know about.))))
Your Decision Is There: Let's Make Sure Your Confidence Sees You Through
$57. Instant access. Yours to read and study as many times as you need.
[GET THE GUIDE]