When Birth Becomes Battle – Surviving Trauma, Postnatal Depression & the Culture That Shames Mothers
- Brainz Magazine
- Nov 28
- 7 min read
Blessing Makanjuola is a thought leader on women’s mental health, feminism, and culture. She is a Mass Communication graduate with advocacy training from the London School of Business and Research. She writes about birth trauma, postpartum depression, digital shaming, and women’s self-care
Childbirth is often celebrated in many cultures as a moment of pure joy, the creative pinnacle of feminine strength, and as the cherished miracle of humanity's loudest whisper with the mystery of the universe. Yet for many mothers, beneath the jubilant smiles of bringing new life lies the shadow of a distressed eccedentesiast mother, disguising pain, trauma, shame, and fear as grace. For me, nothing prepared me for the harsh uncertainties of my journey to motherhood. And never had I imagined that my intrepid self would be so conveniently exposed to the stark realities of medical negligence, socio-cultural shame, and the indignity of emotional isolation. This has been my story, and I reckon it is also that of thousands of women who are suffering silently because society has taught them to conceal their pains.
When childbirth becomes a battle: My first traumatic experience
I had spent weeks in the hospital before giving birth to my son. What was planned as routine prenatal care quickly snowballed into a chain of delays, miscommunication, negligence, and a near-death experience. That routine care led to me being admitted, as I insisted I could not feel the child’s movement. My complaints were ignored as the doctor told me that the ultrasound scan done showed that the baby was okay. However, just a few days after my admission, during the evening ward rounds, one of the junior doctors raised an alarm to the consultant. They brought in the CTG machine, and without giving me the full details of their findings, they told me that the baby must be delivered that night and that I should brace up to be induced before midnight. No one came or communicated with me until around 4 a.m., when the on-call doctor came and vaginally inserted the misoprostol.
By morning, the team assigned to me discovered that the on-call doctor had already induced me at 4 a.m. without updating anyone. Moments later, they informed me that I would need a C-section to rescue the child and save me. I wept, not because of the surgery itself, but because of the stigma attached to having a baby through C-section. In my community, I had seen women being shamed because they chose to have their children by C-section. Even inside the hospital, the judgement was subtle but deeply felt, especially among the nurses. It was as though my decision to stay alive and protect my unborn child made me lazy. It is this toga of laziness and the disdain that comes with it that I have vowed not to adorn.
Consequently, when I was finally wheeled into the operating room, I sobbed uncontrollably, tears cascading down my cheeks and drenching the white bedsheet on both sides, because I believed I had prayed and did not deserve to join the shamed sisterhood of non-conformist C-section mothers. And when the operation started, the first spinal injection of Heavy Marcaine (bupivacaine) that was administered did not work. I was asked to lift my legs, and I responded by lifting them. One of the nurse anesthetists said he did not think the spinal injection had started working, but no one listened to him, and the procedure went ahead because it was almost running behind schedule.
As the first cut pierced my abdominal skin, I jerked a little, thinking that it was normal for one to feel some pain. While still writhing in the pain of the first cut, the other two cuts came in quick succession, leaving me no time to react. But by the time the fourth cut landed on my lower abdomen, I screamed my lungs out, grabbing the hands of the surgeon and asking her to stop. This was when it dawned on the team that the local anaesthesia of bupivacaine had not worked. They immediately switched to general anaesthesia using propofol. That was the last thing I remember until I woke up confused, disoriented, and terrified that someone had taken my baby.
And to avoid further drama, when I was discharged, my husband and I agreed not to inform anyone of the fact that our boy was delivered via C-section. Imagine surviving trauma, then silently pretending it never happened just to escape the stinging bites of people with unkind words.
The culture that shames mothers into silence
What breaks some women the most during and after giving birth with C-section is not the trauma and pain of being cut, it is the demeaning judgement and humiliating condescension delivered with the arrogance of communal ignorance. Women are told, “You should be strong.” “You should push hard like a Hebrew woman.” “You should endure it.” “You must not complain.” In my community, the hardest part is that these messages are echoed by fellow women with good intentions but harmful words, claiming that they had given birth to half a dozen children naturally on their own, or delivered at home without any help, turning their stories into quiet standards that others are measured against. But childbirth is not a stage for proving strength. It is a tender, risky journey, and every woman deserves to choose the safest path for herself and her baby without apology.
It is painful enough when people who have zero medical training make careless comments from a distance, it is far worse when, inside the very place meant to protect you, your pain is treated as an inconvenience. I remember crying into my pillow on the ward, doubled over in post-operative pain, while the nurses insisted I was simply being lazy even after I told them I was dying. A consultant walking past noticed that my pillow was soaked in tears and gently asked if I was okay. She quietly prescribed the right medications, and to shield me from the angst and further hostility by the nurses, she told them that she had seen me herself and that I had not reported anyone.
The woman I cannot forget
During my stay at the hospital, my bed was right next to the bed of another woman who was rushed to the hospital after three days of labour with a local midwife somewhere in a church where they believed it was against the will of God to have a C-section. By the time she got to the hospital, her baby had died hours prior and she had developed sepsis. The C-section she feared was eventually done to evacuate the dead baby, but it was too late. She told me she had refused C-section because of her husband’s family, and the church had told her it was taboo to go through the knife to deliver a baby. I wonder why some people would not allow women to make decisions when it comes to their health. This is why I am of the opinion that women should be financially independent so that they can make decisions about their health without fear of their partners or families withdrawing financial help. I also cannot forget new mothers I saw on my way out of the hospital being held captive at the hospital gate because they could not pay their bills after birth. These are not isolated stories. They are signs of a system that urgently needs compassion and reform.
My second pregnancy: A different kind of battle
Three years later, I became pregnant with my daughter. It was a tough pregnancy. My consultant encouraged vaginal birth, so I did a pelvic scan and it showed I could deliver naturally. But on the day I went to the hospital with early labour signs, I realised I had grown more self-aware. I was no longer afraid to choose what was best for me. I chose a C-section. But again, the nurse questioned my decision. “Where is your mother-in-law? Does she agree to this? What is wrong with you?” This is a health professional, yet she still could not separate cultural shame from medical practice.
Inside the theatre, the spinal anaesthesia worked beautifully and my daughter arrived safely. But after delivery, I had severe rigor and spent months with no support. Slowly, postnatal depression crept in. I became forgetful, disconnected, overwhelmed, and haunted by flashbacks. This reached a climax when my childhood trauma resurfaced. I did not know what was happening. I did not even know postnatal depression existed until I began to research what was happening to me.
Postnatal depression is real, common, and deadly in silence. In fact, the World Health Organisation estimates that around 17.7 percent of women who have just given birth experience postnatal depression globally, with the prevalence higher in low and middle-income countries compared to high-income countries. These are not just numbers. These are mothers. Women who are suffering in silence. And I was one of them.
How I began to heal
I began to heal the moment I spoke out. Healing started the moment I refused to hide my pain. Healing deepened when I sought real help from professionals. Healing became complete when I understood that silence is not strength, it is suffering.
Call to action
To every woman reading this, choose yourself. Choose safety. Choose your mental health. Choose your voice. If something does not feel right, speak. If you are traumatised, seek help. If culture pressures you, resist. Your child needs a healthy mother, not a silent one.
We must end the culture of silence. Women should not feel afraid to say, “I am hurting.” “I am traumatised.” “I need help.” “I chose a C-section for my safety.” “I am depressed.” “I am overwhelmed.” We must normalise conversations around birth trauma, postnatal depression, mental health after childbirth, cultural expectations, and women’s autonomy.
Silence is not strength. It is suffering. A healthy mother is more important than a culturally approved birth story. Women deserve empathy, not judgement, especially when bringing life into the world.
Healthcare providers should lead with empathy. Families should stop projecting their experiences and insecurities on others. Communities should stop shaming women for their choices. Governments must educate in local languages so no woman is left behind.
Your story matters. Your healing matters. You matter.
Blessing Makanjuola, Women’s Mental Health Thought Leader
Blessing Makanjuola is a thought leader on women’s mental health, feminism, and culture. A Mass Communication graduate with advocacy training from the London School of Business and Research (LSBR), she uses storytelling, research, and lived experience to challenge silence around birth trauma, postpartum depression, digital shaming, and child marriage. Drawing from Yoruba history and her Nigerian roots, she shows that African women have always been central to community, leadership, and healing. Through the growing Blessing Makanjuola brand, she creates honest, safe spaces that help women unlearn shame, embrace self-care, and rebuild their lives with gentleness and courage.
