When We Forget to Listen: Reflection on the Stories We Tell About Birth and Motherhood

Lately, I’ve felt a heaviness in the way we talk about pregnancy, birth, and motherhood.

Not because the conversations aren’t important—they absolutely are—but because so many of them seem to come wrapped in defensiveness, judgement, and fear. Everywhere I look, women are being pulled into opposing camps. We are told we must either trust the system completely or reject it entirely. We’re made to feel that choosing one path automatically means condemning another.

As a mother, a therapist who supports women’s mental health, and a Hypnobirthing teacher, I’ve spent the last few years listening to women’s stories. Each one is unique. Each one is shaped by circumstance and the deep longing to protect and love their baby. But something has gone wrong in how we talk about those choices.

Mainstream headlines often break my heart. When a tragedy occurs following a homebirth, the story is splashed across every paper—framed as evidence that “choice” and “agency” are dangerous indulgences. Yet, when the tragedy comes from medical negligence or coercion within a highly medicalised birth, the story rarely makes the same noise. Those mothers—who also believed they were making the best possible choices—had the very same intention: to find safety for themselves and to do what was best for their baby. And yet, one is so often portrayed as irresponsible and careless, while the other is framed simply as a victim. In truth, both are victims—of a system that too often prioritises protecting itself over protecting the women within it.

And so, women are caught in the crossfire of polarised narratives. On one side, the “natural birth culture” is blamed for being reckless and idealistic. On the other, women who choose epidurals, inductions, or caesareans are accused of being disconnected from their bodies. These sweeping judgments oversimplify experiences that are always far more complex than they appear. They strip away the personal context, the fear, the courage, and the love that shape each woman’s decisions. What’s really needed is compassion—an understanding that every birth story sits within a web of emotions, influences, and intentions that deserve to be met with empathy, not assumption.

And sadly, this divisiveness doesn’t stop once the baby arrives. It creeps into every corner of motherhood—the way we feed our babies, how we approach sleep, the toys we buy, the groups we attend, even the language we use about our parenting choices. Breastfeeding or bottle feeding, gentle sleep training or co-sleeping for years—each decision becomes another test of identity, another line drawn in the sand. When did nurturing our children become so entangled with defending our choices? We forget that every mother is simply trying to find what works best for her family, often while running on empty and longing for reassurance, not critique.

But here’s the truth I’ve learned again and again:

It is not the path that matters most—it is the support surrounding it.

When women are truly informed, when their voices are heard, when they feel safe to ask questions and explore options without fear of judgement—they can make choices that align with their values and circumstances. That’s where empowerment lives. Not in a specific birth plan, but in the freedom to make one’s own. And ultimately, that kind of empowerment is what shapes the next generation—not whether a baby was breastfed or bottle-fed, or how long they slept in their parents’ room, but whether they grew up in a society where their mother was respected, supported, and valued. A mother who feels seen and safe has more energy, compassion, and love to give back—to her family, to her community, and to the world her children will inherit.

We cannot control every outcome. Birth, by its very nature, humbles us. But we can change the way we hold each other through it. We can stop turning against one another in the comment sections and start turning toward each other in empathy.

Because it starts with us—with women talking to women.

When a mother shares her story, can we listen without comparing?

When her choices differ from ours, can we resist the urge to correct her and instead simply witness her experience?

When fear or grief surfaces, can we offer understanding before offering opinions?

Every mother deserves to feel that she belongs in the story of motherhood—no matter how her journey unfolded.

So perhaps the work ahead isn’t about defending “natural birth” or “medical birth” at all. It’s about defending each other. It’s about calling for nuance in our media, compassion in our conversations, and deep respect for the complexity of birth and motherhood in all their forms.

Because at the end of the day, we all want the same thing: to bring our babies into the world safely and to emerge from that experience whole—in body, in mind, and in spirit.

And that can only happen when we remember to listen.