I Gave Birth To My Children In A Car And A Laundromat. When I Finally Made It To The Hospital, I Was Shocked By How I Was Treated.

Even as a first-time mother, I thought I understood childbirth. I’d spent my pregnancy preparing for every possibility, and I was convinced I knew what to expect. I had watched the movies, read the books, and listened to the stories of long,drawn-out labors that stretched for hours, even days. I was told this was especially true for first births.

I imagined the build-up ― the contractions, the dramatic rush to the hospital, the delivery room filled withmedical professionals guiding me safely through it.

I imagined labor as something gradual, a controlled journey to meeting my baby.

But in the end, none of that mattered.

Because sometimes, birth has its own plan.

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It was a Friday morning in the thick of NYC rush hour traffic on the FDR Drive.

Maurice, my partner, was driving us from the Bronx to a hospital in Manhattan ― a decision I made early on, out offear that a local hospital wouldn’t take me seriously as a Black woman giving birth in TheBronx. That fear had haunted and loomed over me my entire pregnancy. 

I was pregnant at the height of COVID-19, when hospital restrictions were still in place. Maurice couldn’t attend doctor’s appointments with me, and at every visit, I felt the weight of being on my own. At the same time, stories of Black mothers being dismissed during pregnancy and childbirth haunted me ― none more than Amber Isaac’s (#JusticeForAmber). Amber was just 26 years old when she died at Montefiore Medical Center, the same Bronx hospital closest to me. She had raised concerns for months about her care, confiding in her family and even tweeting about her fears. She was admitted for low platelet levels, induced three days later, and died the next day. The warning signs were there, but she wasn’t heard.

Her story was a devastating reminder of what was at stake. As a lifelong Manhattanite, I had only lived in the Bronx for three months before becoming pregnant, but I had already heard enough firsthand experiences to make my decision nonnegotiable.

But I never even made it to the delivery room.

That morning, we had been in touch with my doula, someone I had hired early in my pregnancy and considered essential to my journey into motherhood. She checked in on my symptoms (which were mild at the time) and reminded me of what we had previously discussed: going to the hospital too early could “start the clock” on potential interventions. So, I labored at home a little longer, as planned.

But something felt different. There was a “popping” feeling internally. My contractions didn’t start out slow and gradually build up; they startedone minute apart.

By the time Maurice ran to get the car (which, thanks to city life, was parked in a garage seven minutes away), I was alone on our bathroom floor, in active labor, praying I wouldn’t give birth right there.

We were 40 blocks away when I felt it, an unmistakable pressure that stole my breath with its intensity. It wasn’ta contraction. It wasn’t a warning. It was his head.

My baby was coming. Now.

I turned to Maurice, my voice shaky but the urgency absolute.

“Pull over. I can feel his head.”

Ididn’t scream like they do in the movies. This was the time to conserve my energy. I felt the weight of Maurice’shand in mine and gripped it tightly. I mentally recited from memory the affirmations I had printed just two daysbefore but never got a chance to use. The pain was all-consuming, but I focused on my breathing, reminding myselfthat “I can do hard things.”

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. And yet, somehow, I knew we were protected. My mother, who hadpassed away years before, was with me. Guiding me. Holding me. Ensuring that despite everything, I wouldsurvive.

Maurice swerved off the nearest exit, threw the car into park, and ran around to the passenger side. But by thetime he reached me, five seconds later, maybe less, our son was already being born into his hands.

Avery Santana was here. Born on Nov. 5, 2021.

Five seconds. That’s all it took to change everything. In those five seconds we went from being just us tobecoming parents.

When the ambulance arrived, I was clutching Avery to my chest, still attached to me by the cord that had carriedhim here. His cries were strong. We did it ― alone, together. We were OK. We were alive. 

The funny thing? One of my biggest fears had been going into labor and giving birth in an Uber. But we had just purchased our own car that Monday, installed the car seat on Wednesday, and on Friday, Avery had made his grand entrance in the front seat.

I learned I should probably be more specific with my wishes.

At the hospital, the staff applauded as we were rolled in. They had been expecting us since they got the call from the ambulance. It was surreal, and for a moment, I felt a wave of relief. Like I had done this myself, so nothing could or would go wrong now.

But then the questions started.

“Why didn’t you leave sooner?”

“Did you want to give birth at home?”

“Why didn’t you make it in time?”

As if contractions one minute apart had given me any real choice.

Instead of centering care, the focus seemed to shift to curiosity, to the spectacle of it all. My body had just been through the most intense experience of my life, my mind still trying to catch up, and yet, it felt like I was on display. They marveled at me, but they didn’t check in with me.

What no one at the hospital told me — what could have been a moment of education instead of interrogation — was that I had just experienced precipitous labor: a rapid birth that happens in three hours or less. I wasn’t reckless. I wasn’t naive. My labor simply didn’t follow the slow, predictable timeline I had been led to expect. And yet, no one explained this to me in that moment. Instead of feeling seen and supported, I felt judged, like I had done something wrong to cause this. When in reality, my body had just moved faster than any of us could have anticipated.

I left that hospital knowing two things: My body was powerful, and if there ever was a next time, I had to prepare differently.

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When I became pregnant again, Avery was 9 months old, I knew what “worst case scenario” looked and felt like. People told me I could do it again, without a hospital even, but I was terrified. What if things had taken an awful turn the first time around? Anything truly could have happened.

I knew I needed support, not just for labor, but for the mental and emotional weight of what I had already experienced. I connected with an online birth trauma processing circle, facilitated by JustBirth Space, which offers free and virtual doula support, where I was able to unpack my fears and prepare differently. Through this resource, I met Erica Livingston, a doula with decades of experience, who became a guiding force in my second pregnancy. She attended my in-person appointments virtually, ensuring I was heard, affirmed and empowered in my decisions. She validated my experience in a way no one had before.

Fun Fact: It wasn’t until I met Erica, at seven months pregnant, that I even heard the term precipitous labor. She was the first person to name what had happened to me. The first person to say, “This is a real thing, and you should have been told.” That moment shifted everything for me. It reframed my experience, not as something I failed to control, but as something my body had done instinctively and powerfully.

This time, I planned for a hospital birth in White Plains, believing that heading north would be a safer bet than dealing with unpredictable city traffic heading south. I knew second labors often progressed even faster, and I wanted to give myself every chance to make it in time.

I sought out resources. I did the work to process and heal. I acknowledged the what ifs. I made a solid birth plan.

Still, history and childbirth often have their own plans.

Ibarely made it outside before my knees buckled. The pain of back labor was searing. I remember just wanting tolie down. The air was damp, and the ground was still wet from the morning rain — but it didn’t matter. Nothingmattered except surrendering to what my body was doing.

And then, my water broke ― right in front of our Bronx apartment building.

Somehow, with Maurice’s help, I willed myself up the five steps leading toward the laundromat on our corner, each step feeling like an impossible feat. My body was shutting down, but my mind clung desperately to the plan: Get to the hospital. Drive there. Make it in time.

A woman smoking a cigarette outside took one look at me and told Maurice, “Let her lay down if she needs to.”

Krystine, my nephew’s mother, had rushed over that morning, ready to take us to the hospital and also help us with Avery. Her presence became an anchor, comforting him in the chaos and allowing Maurice to focus entirely on me as I fought to bring our child into the world. She ensured no one was recording me at my most vulnerable, with the hope of capturing and posting a viral moment. When she saw my legs start to give out, she called out for a chair, and a stranger from a nearby bodega ran one over without hesitation.

Then, fate intervened. A bus pulled up, and an off-duty EMT happened to be among the passengers. She jumped into action, checking in on me and coaching Maurice, not that he needed it. I heard voices ― neighbors, strangers ― startled by the reality ofbirth unfolding before them. A laundromat full of people, caught in the rhythm of their Sunday routines,suddenly paused as New York City did what it does best: come together in extraordinary moments.

By the time paramedics arrived, our daughter was already earthside.

Kessler Jane was born on April 30, 2023.

As I held Kessler to my chest, umbilical cord still attached, the weight of déjà vu settled over me. 

I thought: Despite everything, I shouldn’t have had to do this like this again.

And then I wondered. If I had chosen a closer hospital, would the trajectory of events have been different?Would I have made it in time? Or was I destined to give birth this way, no matter the distance?

By the time we arrived at the hospital, I was still clutching Kessler to my chest, the umbilical cord still attached. My body was spent, my mind caught between shock, exhaustion and relief. But childbirth doesn’t end once the baby is born ― there was still more to endure.

The emergency department was a blur of movement. Maurice held our new baby girl at the front of the room while I was poked, prodded and bombarded with questions. Since I had never been to this hospital before, intake had to be done on the spot, adding to the chaos of an already overwhelming moment. 

It was a teaching hospital, and I quickly became the unwilling center of a lesson. A sea of unfamiliar faces — students, residents, doctors — hovered over me, discussing me as if I weren’t even there. I had to summon the strength to tell them to stop, just so I could catch my breath. Still, my placenta wouldn’t deliver. Fading fast, I was placed on a stretcher and wheeled to the postpartum unit.

As I was being transported, a midwife, someone I had never met before, leaned in close with a question that made my stomach drop.

“So… what are you thinking for birth control?”

I blinked, too drained to mask my shock. My placenta was still inside me. My body was still trembling from the trauma of birth. And this was the conversation she chose to have with me?

“I’m not thinking ANYTHING for birth control right now,” I shot back.

It wasn’t just the timing. It was the blatant disregard for what I had just endured. The way she prioritized a routine checklist over my humanity. I had just done something extraordinary. Something terrifying. Something that should have warranted even the smallest moment of acknowledgment. Instead, I was reduced to a talking point, a form to be filled, a box to check off.

I had survived birthing on my own — again — but in that moment, I realized that survival isn’t the same as being cared for.

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Iused to think strength was about endurance, about pushing through, about holding on. But childbirth taughtme that real strength is about radical surrender.

I am part of a long lineage of Black mothers who have birthed against the odds — navigating fear, systemicbarriers and the unknown, yet still bringing life into this world with resilience. My children’s arrivals were fast,unexpected and unconventional, but they were also deeply affirming. Each experience reinforced my intuition,my power, and the urgent need for all pregnant women — but especially Black mothers — to be heard, respectedand cared for with dignity.

These births weren’t just about bringing my babies into the world. They were about rewriting a narrative, onethat too often tells Black women our lives are less important, even disposable, in childbirth.

Every mother has a different story, but what binds us together is the resilience we carry.Motherhood is unpredictable. It will take us to the edge of what we think we can handle and then push us past it.It reveals us to ourselves in ways we don’t expect. We prepare for the textbook version of events, but it’s in theunpredictable moments that we see what we’re really made of. Sometimes, themost extraordinary moments come from the stories we never expected to tell.

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