effacement
Wednesday, April 15th, 2026
Sunday was a good day. This fortunately isn’t a rarity for me. It’s my favourite day of the week and the day on which I was born.
We celebrated her due date with a sprinkle cupcake, a candle and a wish each and it passed with no more fanfare than the roast chicken Taylor plated for family dinner. It passed with contentment and ease. It passed without labour.
That very night, I felt my first contractions around 3am. It was quiet and peaceful and I was comforted by letting Taylor sleep on in the dark beside me. I lay on my side holding my belly and decided to use the stopwatch to measure a few. Seven minutes, eight minutes. I then put the concept of time away in a series of moments that begged for presence. These contractions were entirely and beautifully like waves. The slow build creeping upwards from my pelvis and the tight drawing downwards like the ocean on sand. The crescendo and the fall. The tide that ebbs and flows and you’re better to let it take you than to brace for impact. Waves crashing in their cyclical rhythm. The process of it all felt sacred and ancient, as though I were stepping into a sea of women before me. I thought of all of the private moments we share in the dark while men sleep. Primordial passages opening, inviting and beckoning down.
And then- quiet. The waves dissipated and the tide went out and the excitement of the moment was replaced with the bureaucracy of the Monday morning waiting room at the routine 40-week ultrasound we were cautioned we “might not need”. But we did and the results were blessedly good, again, and according to the tech about to go on her lunch break, our baby was “just chilling”.
We hold gratitude and disappointment balanced in each hand and I did my best to remember that when I woke up in defeat on Tuesday morning. I felt one single wave wash over me in an otherwise sleepy and dream-filled night. I researched “false labour”.
The waiting game, as it has been lovingly referred to us by many. Others seem to be equally interested in asking about my due date as they are in reminding me, “She will come when she’s ready”. We crave the measure of time only to assume moral strength in rejecting it. This is made worse by the surge of elective inductions and by the increasing belief that 40 weeks is far too long. At one point that seems so distant now, I shared this point of view too and actually expressed excitement that she might come closer to 39 or maybe even 38! The average delivery date for a first-time mother falls on 40 weeks and 5 days.
“You are dilated about a fingertip.”
“Is that 1cm?” I asked, hopeful eyes shining.
“… No.”
My doctor and I shared a chuckle at my last appointment when my optimism was far out-performing my measuring skills. My cervix remained in tact and in place, barely moved by the prospect of labour. In order to give birth, it will need to dilate yes, but it will also be measured in percentage of effacement. How thin and how soft can this opening become? 100% effaced is described as paper-thin.
This week my heart sank as I exhaled this bout of false labour away. I had been feeling so beautifully at peace in the waiting game, before the contractions. Before the stop and start. Before the surge of excitement that asked to be let go, if only temporarily. Still, the inevitable truth lingered in the morning air of my bedroom that birth is not the time to close up. In all ways, literal and figurative. If nothing else, it is truly the moment to remain bravely open, to allow yourself to become completely effaced, worn paper-thin by the crescendo of 40-odd weeks of up and down moments that came before. Through all of it, growing softer with pressure until, at the very end, you allow yourself to step into the sea and be swept away.
***
At my next appointment, we will discuss options for induction and modern medicine’s way of helping my body surrender. One of these methods is a synthetic form of oxytocin, the “love hormone”, which the body needs to drive and sustain labour.
Research suggests that individuals with CPTSD, often stemming from childhood abuse or chronic trauma, exhibit dysfunctional oxytocin systems.
It occurs to me that my body might need some help along. Could our personal and collective trauma be one of the factors in rising induction rates? I have just started to be able to receive love and actually FEEL it. My neural pathways are not 34-years old, they are freshly formed and now they have to guide a baby girl into the world?! For anyone that criticizes trauma survivors for endlessly wallowing in their circumstance, take a look at how often it creeps up unannounced and rears its ugly little head.
This morning, Taylor told me that he thinks of my resilience like a flower. Soft and beautiful, but also willing and able to bloom in a variety of situations, chosen or not. He used the word graceful to describe how he has observed me throughout this pregnancy. We hug and we walk down this newly formed path together, like the one we saw yesterday in the forest lined with Dutch crocus.The love hormone.
***
I feel a tightening deep in my pelvis as my belly bumps into the edge of my lap top on inhale. The nice lace blouse I chose from my closet this morning is dotted with drops of fresh and drying breast milk. We find out at our appointment tomorrow if perhaps, I have now dilated two fingertips. Things are happening and in this in-between, we focus on how present we can be, instead of how much progress we can measure.
I hope my next start is not a false one, but the real thing. If not, that is okay too. In the rise and fall, we allow ourselves to be worn soft. Life comes in waves and love is what drives the current.
