“She has a lot of hair.”
That’s the first thing I remember hearing when my daughter was born.
After 18 hours of labor, two hours of pushing, several emotional breakdowns, one near-spiritual level of exhaustion, and enough hospital monitors beeping around me to feel like I was piloting a spaceship, that was the sentence that introduced my baby girl to the world.
And honestly? It felt strangely perfect.
It was 6:27 on a Monday morning when she was finally born. By that point, I had completely lost any sense of time, dignity, or understanding of how many people had seen me cry in a hospital gown.
But to explain what giving birth in the United States felt like as a foreigner, I have to start the day before.
“Just Go Get Checked”
It was Sunday morning. Exactly 39 weeks pregnant.
Around 5 a.m., I woke up feeling strange little vibrations in my stomach. Not pain. Not contractions. Just something unusual enough that my already hyper-alert pregnant brain immediately decided required investigation.
So I called my doctor.
They told me what I would later realize is the universal response to almost everything in late pregnancy:
“If it gives you peace of mind, go get checked.”
So my husband immediately grabbed our hospital bags and put them in the car “just in case,” while I insisted there was probably nothing happening.
This also sums us up pretty well.
We were already familiar with the hospital because we had taken a prenatal course there and done the labor and delivery tour beforehand. Also because, at one point during pregnancy, I convinced myself the baby wasn’t moving enough and went in to get monitored.
Pregnancy really turns your brain into a part-time detective with no medical degree.
The nurses checked me in, monitored the baby, and calmly informed me that while everything looked perfectly fine… I was apparently already having contractions every seven minutes.
Which was surprising news considering I felt absolutely nothing.
So they sent us home.
Naturally, instead of resting like responsible soon-to-be parents, we decided to go get brunch, as the good millennials we are.
In our defense, if your body might be preparing for one of the most physically demanding experiences of your life, croissants feel reasonable. Mandatory, even.
After brunch, we went shopping for last-minute baby things because apparently both of us truly believed we still had plenty of time.
At one point, I told my husband:
“I heard side walking helps the baby get into position.”
So there I was, aggressively side walking through a parking lot for approximately five minutes like I was training for a very specific Olympic event.
That was around the time the contractions actually started.
The “Everything Is Fine” Phase Ends Quickly
At first, the contractions just felt like strong cramps. Manageable. Uncomfortable, but manageable.
Then they kept coming.
Closer together. Stronger. More serious.
My husband started timing them while we walked through stores, and eventually there were moments where I had to stop completely and breathe through them.
Since they still weren’t five minutes apart yet, we went back home to wait.
I took a shower. My husband took a shower. I started writing my birth plan at the absolute last minute because, for some reason, I had convinced myself I had another week left to organize my life.
I did not.
Right after noon, the contractions were painful enough that I was crying, so we went back to the hospital.
The check-in process itself honestly impressed me. Smooth, calm, organized. The nurses were kind and reassuring without being overly dramatic.
They hooked me up to the monitors again, and after about fifteen minutes, one of them came back and casually said:
“You’re being admitted.”
Suddenly, everything felt real.
The nurse asked if I wanted to walk around or use the yoga ball.
I confidently answered:
“I think I’d rather walk.”
About sixty seconds later, I was folded over the yoga ball questioning every decision I had ever made while my husband recorded me for what is now a video documenting one of the most humbling experiences of my life.
Until that point, labor still felt weirdly lighthearted.
My husband was making jokes, trying to distract me, even posting funny Instagram stories about me being in labor while I glared at him through contractions.
Which, honestly, was fair.
The Epidural Debate
I originally wanted to delay getting the epidural because I had read it could slow labor down.
Then the anesthesiologist situation became unexpectedly urgent.
One of the nurses explained that the anesthesiologist had a scheduled C-section later that afternoon, meaning if I wanted the epidural, this was probably the moment.
Otherwise, I’d likely be doing this unmedicated.
Now, I am deeply afraid of needles. Not casually afraid. I’ve hyperventilated twice in my life, and both times involved needles.
But at that point, fear of contractions was winning quite aggressively over fear of needles.
So I agreed.
The epidural itself worked quickly and honestly felt like entering another dimension emotionally.
Suddenly, I could breathe again. Think again. Exist as a person instead of a contraction survival unit.
Then immediately after, my blood pressure dropped.
Fast.
The baby’s heart rate slowed too, and suddenly the room filled with doctors and nurses moving very quickly around me.
That was probably the first moment I felt genuinely scared.
Thankfully, they stabilized everything quickly, explained exactly what was happening, and reassured me the baby was okay.
And this is one thing I’ll say about my labor experience in the US: once things became serious, the medical team became incredibly attentive.
That surprised me after feeling so emotionally disconnected during a lot of my prenatal care.
The Longest Night of My Life
Around 4 p.m., my husband left briefly to pick up my sister-in-law, who was driving in from another state.
The second he left, the doctor came in and suggested breaking my water because labor had slowed down a bit.
When they broke it, they found meconium.
I immediately panicked.
The doctors and nurses stayed incredibly calm and explained everything carefully, including that the NICU team would be present during delivery as a precaution.
That became one of the biggest differences I noticed giving birth here: the amount of monitoring, staff, equipment, and constant communication happening around me.
I was being watched constantly. The baby was being monitored constantly. Nurses came in regularly to reposition me, check dilation, adjust machines, and explain next steps.
Hours kept passing.
I was dilating well, but the baby wasn’t moving down properly because she was positioned incorrectly, facing upward instead of toward my back.
So they kept rotating me from side to side every thirty minutes, trying to get her into a better position.
By midnight, I was exhausted.
Emotionally exhausted. Physically exhausted. Mentally exhausted.
At one point, they placed me in a position so uncomfortable that I genuinely thought time had stopped moving.
The nurse kept saying:
“Five more minutes.”
Those were the longest five minutes of my life.
I remember crying at that point, not because of pain exactly, but because I was overwhelmed and terrified I would go through all those hours only to end up needing a C-section anyway.
My husband and sister-in-law were incredible. Truly.
I felt loved, supported, cared for the entire time.
And honestly, during labor itself, I was okay.
We kept my mom updated constantly because I knew she would worry, but at the time I was so focused on getting through contractions, exhaustion, and eventually meeting my baby that I didn’t fully process the emotional side of being far from home.
That came later.
Postpartum has a way of making you realize how much comfort exists in having your own mother nearby. Not even for dramatic moments necessarily, but for the quieter ones. Someone taking care of you while you’re learning how to take care of someone else.
But that deserves its own conversation. One I’ll save for another post.
Pushing While Half-Asleep
Around 4 a.m., after more medication and almost no sleep, the nurses came in and cheerfully announced:
“Ready to push?”
Respectfully, no.
I was exhausted to a level I didn’t know existed.
I could barely keep my eyes open between contractions. Every time someone stopped talking to me, I immediately started drifting asleep.
The pushing itself was harder than I expected because I apparently kept directing the force incorrectly.
Which is honestly humbling considering how many times people confidently tell women to “just push.”
At one point, I regretted crying earlier because my nose was completely blocked and I couldn’t breathe properly while pushing.
Very glamorous experience overall.
Still, every time a contraction came, I kept talking to my baby in my head:
“We can do this. Stay strong. We’re almost there. I can’t wait to meet you.”
After two hours of pushing, the doctor came in and adjusted something physically, and suddenly I understood exactly where the force needed to go.
The next contraction came.
Then another.
And suddenly everyone’s faces changed.
“She has a lot of hair,” one nurse said.
One more push and she was out.
The Moment Everything Changed
They placed her on my chest, and I just stared at her in complete disbelief.
Crying, I couldn’t fully process that she was real.
After all the hours of fear, pain, adrenaline, exhaustion, monitors, contractions, repositioning, tears, and anxiety… she was suddenly just there.
Warm.
Tiny.
Perfect.
And somehow with an unbelievable amount of hair on her head.
The NICU team checked her while the doctor finished everything else, and I remember feeling this overwhelming sense of relief move through my entire body.
Nothing else mattered anymore.
Not the pain.
Not the exhaustion.
Not the fear.
Just her.
My sister-in-law took photos during labor that I’ll probably treasure forever. My husband stayed calm the entire time, making jokes at exactly the moments I needed distraction and quietly grounding me whenever I started spiraling.
Somewhere during those hours, the hospital room stopped feeling foreign.
It just felt like the place where my daughter entered the world.
What Actually Surprised Me About Giving Birth in the US
The biggest surprise was how different labor and delivery felt compared to prenatal care.
During pregnancy, a lot of appointments felt rushed and impersonal to me.
But the actual birth experience was the opposite.
The delivery room was huge. The nurses were attentive and emotionally reassuring. There were specialists constantly checking on both the baby and me. Lactation consultants came by. Pediatricians came by. Nurses checked on us every few hours.
There was an entire system built around monitoring, support, recovery, and safety.
Honestly, compared to many birth stories I’ve heard from friends and family back in Colombia, I felt incredibly cared for.
Then the bill arrived months later, and suddenly all the kindness started making financial sense.
Thankfully, insurance covered most of it because otherwise I may have needed emotional support all over again.
But truly, despite my frustrations with parts of the healthcare system here, I left that experience deeply grateful for the medical staff who took care of me that day.
My baby arrived into this world in a country that wasn’t mine, surrounded by people I hadn’t known long, in a system I was still learning to navigate.
And somehow, in that room, none of that mattered.
She was here. We were okay.
And that was more than enough.