They Didn’t Listen. And I’m Finally Talking About It.

Reading Time: 9 minutes

TW: Discussion on birth trauma.

I was about to become a mum for the second time. I had done this before; I knew what to expect, or so I thought. But this time felt different. This time, I had plans. I’d put together little care baskets for the nurses on the ward, filled with treats and bits of appreciation, because I genuinely love that kind of thing. I had imagined a warm, calm, controlled experience. I had pictured myself walking in prepared, composed, and walking out with my baby and a good story to tell.

What I got was something else entirely.

When the Worry Starts Early

At my 20-week scan, I was told my baby wasn’t growing along the expected chart. Then at the next scan, the same concern. I was referred for monitoring, consultations, more scans. All of this while my husband was simultaneously trying to hold down work and look after our toddler at home. There was no pause button. Life didn’t stop to accommodate the fear quietly building inside me.

The monitoring became a routine. CTG machines. Heartbeat checks. Consultants. And with the consultations came pressure; pressure to accept an induction, to consider a C-section, because there was a possibility something might be wrong. I wasn’t dismissing their advice. I was asking questions. Was there a risk to the interventions they were suggesting? Could the measurements have been slightly off? Could we discuss the options rather than be pushed towards one?

There’s a difference between refusing care and trying to understand it, but not everyone in that room seemed to know that.

It wasn’t until a female consultant came on rotation that I finally felt heard. She explained things to me rather than at me. She didn’t make me feel like I was putting my child at risk by asking questions. We came to an agreement: I would come in daily to be monitored, and we would take it from there. One day the heartbeat dipped. They monitored further. Another day it happened again. She examined me, discussed the options clearly, and respected that I didn’t want an induction. We agreed on a sweep as an alternative as it looked like I was already around 2/3cm dilated. I left that appointment feeling like a woman, not a problem.

The Day Everything Changed

A few days later, I came in for what felt like routine monitoring. My husband couldn’t make it, so my younger brother brought me. I told him not to worry, it was just routine, he could wait in the car. He waited. And waited. The ward was busy, and I wasn’t seen for a long time.

When they finally called me in, I got strapped up as usual, they left me on the machine and got on with their work. When the nurse came to check the readings, she looked concerned, but said they were closing and would have to send me up to triage. I texted my brother to go home. He’d already been there for hours.

I was starving. I hadn’t eaten all day and it was nearly dinner. My brother offered to get me something before he left. I requested doner meat and chips with chilli and mint sauce.

That was my first mistake. (I know, I know. 😄)

He went to get the food. Meanwhile, a doctor came to speak to me. He explained that the baby might not be well, or that I might already be in early labour, and that they couldn’t help her until she was out. I asked if I could go home briefly to get my bags and come back with my husband. He gently told me that if anything happened to the baby after he let me leave knowing what the monitor was showing, he wouldn’t be able to live with that and he would be questioned by his colleagues also. That’s when I understood- this was serious.

He asked if I’d like a female doctor to come and examine me. I said yes. I called my family. I called my brother, who came back up with my food, only to be turned away at security. He left the food at the desk and was told a nurse or support worker would bring it to me. And then a nurse or support staff told me I couldn’t eat anyway, because there was a possibility of a C-section.

Nobody had told me that yet. The doctor hadn’t said that. But there I was, hungry, scared, alone, and now being told I couldn’t even eat.

(I did sneak a few bites. I had no choice. I wouldn’t have had the strength to labour otherwise. No regrets.)

The Part That Still Hurts

My husband was on his way. He texted me from the car park, not far away from where I was lying. And then a female Asian doctor came in with the support nurse.

I want to be clear about what I was asking for: I just wanted her to check my dilation. The first doctor had said I might already be in labour; if that was true, I wanted to know, and I wanted to avoid unnecessary intervention if my body was already doing what it needed to do. I had done my research. I knew the statistics: more interventions often lead to further interventions. I was informed. I was calm. I was not being difficult. She told me she would not come back to check on me later- she made me feel like I was an inconvenience asking for a female doctor.

I also asked if she could wait just a few moments for my husband. By this point he was at reception, right there. I wanted him in the room. I was scared and I didn’t feel comfortable with how she was speaking to me.

She refused.

She said I didn’t need my husband there. She said she couldn’t wait. The NHS’s own guidelines encourage the presence of birth partners during examinations and procedures. There was no clinical reason to refuse him. But she refused anyway.

And then she began the examination and it was the most pain I had experienced throughout the entire monitoring process. Not like the female consultant. Not like any of the nurses. This was different. And before I could process what was happening, she had broken my waters.

I had not consented to that. I clearly told her that I did not want it before she started.

I cried. I begged her to stop. She didn’t.

When she finally finished, she asked me why I was crying. She told me I should be happy that it is happening. And then she left.

I was 6cm dilated. And I was shaking, sobbing, and alone; until my husband walked in moments later and found me in pieces.

What Came After

As I walked to the labour room, the contractions surged. I was crying as I walked. The nurse escorting me listened as I explained what had happened. She looked concerned. “That shouldn’t have happened,” she said quietly. The delivery nurse said the same, she read through my birth notes carefully, apologised, and promised to honour them as best she could. I had always noted in my birth preferences that in a medical emergency, the team should do whatever was necessary. I wasn’t unreasonable. I just wanted to be respected.

The contractions were so intense I vomited, and yes, the chilli and mint sauce made the experience even more memorable. I can safely say I didn’t touch that kind of food for months afterwards.

But then; alhamdulillah, something shifted. The nurse who delivered my daughter was wonderful. She understood me. She was gentle, patient, and respectful of my wishes to keep things as natural as possible. They monitored the baby throughout. At one point the heartbeat dipped and a rush of people came in, but by then I told them I could feel her head.

They stepped back. And I delivered my daughter. Quickly. Naturally. Without any further intervention.

Afterwards, I asked my husband to go and collect the care hamper I’d packed, the treats for the staff, my little act of gratitude. They loved it. It felt important to me that I still gave that, even after everything.

Why I Didn’t Report Her (And Why I Wish I Had)

After I was discharged, my husband and I talked about making a complaint. I even stopped at the nurses’ station when I had to go back to collect a prescription the following day asking for the doctors name-but as soon as I mentioned the word “complaint,” the tone changed and I was pointed elsewhere.

And then life swallowed me whole.

My daughter had severe colic and reflux. I wasn’t sleeping. Every day was survival mode. The complaint stayed on my list of things to do, and that list never got shorter. But the memory never left. It comes back in flashes, usually at quiet moments, usually when I least expect it.

To some, it might not sound like a big deal. But to me, it felt like I had lost control of my own body. She had done something to me that I had explicitly asked her not to do. And nobody stopped her.

I wonder sometimes how many other women that same doctor has treated that way. How many women like me got home, got consumed by a newborn who needed them, and never found the time or energy to make that complaint, even though it quietly haunts them years later.

The Third Time Around

I did go back to the same hospital for my third pregnancy. And I want to say, it was a completely different experience. I told the team what had happened, and they were brilliant. So much so that I baked bread while I was in labour at home. (Yes, really. I needed something to do with my hands.) By the time we got to the hospital, I was already 5–6cm dilated, and I had my son within an hour and a half to 2 hours.

My mum kept pushing us to leave the house earlier, worried I’d deliver in the car and honestly, she wasn’t wrong. When we arrived, the nurses were warm and attentive. The only issue was that the birthing pool room had been left with the windows wide open by the cleaners. It was freezing. I had wanted a water birth since my first child, the pool was filled and ready but things moved so fast, and the nurse stepped out briefly to send my bloods off. I felt the head, and it was just me and my husband in the room.

He pressed the buzzer. No response.

He opened the door and called out. Nothing.

He had to raise his voice, urgent, the baby is coming right now, before anyone came. Suddenly the room was full of nurses and doctors and I panicked. I screamed in a way I had never screamed with any of my births. Not from pain, but from the sudden chaos, the fear, the speed of it all.

They cleared the room and left the nurse to do her thing.

And alhamdulillah, I had my son. Although there were complications after having him regulate his temperature, he was ok as he was being monitored straight away. 

This Is Bigger Than My Story

I’m not writing this so that you feel sorry for me. I’m writing this because what happened to me is not an isolated incident.

The data is there, and it is damning.

According to MBRRACE-UK data published in January 2024, Black women in the UK are 2.8 times more likely to die during or up to six weeks after pregnancy compared to white women, and Asian women are 1.7 times more likely to die during the same period.

A large survey of over 24,000 women found that women in all minority ethnic groups reported a poorer experience of maternity care than white women. Bangladeshi and Pakistani women in particular reported feeling less likely to be treated with kindness in hospital, and less likely to have enough postnatal support.

Research has also shown that the power dynamic between maternity staff and women can leave women feeling ‘let down’ – forced to ‘give up power’ the moment they enter a healthcare space. When you add race into that equation, the imbalance deepens.

Under the Health and Social Care Act 2008, treating patients with dignity, empathy, and respect isn’t optional – it is a statutory requirement. It is the law.

That doctor didn’t just fail in her bedside manner. She failed in her legal duty.

What You Can Do (And What I Wish I Had Done)

If you have experienced something similar- whether during this birth or one years ago, please know:

It is not too late to speak up.

• You can make a complaint to the NHS through the Patient Advice and Liaison Service (PALS) at your hospital, even retrospectively.
• You can contact the Parliamentary and Health Service Ombudsman if your complaint isn’t resolved.
• Organisations like Five X More, Birthrights, and Maternity Action specifically support ethnic minority women who have experienced poor maternity care.
• If you experienced something that felt like a violation of your consent, that matters. Record what happened. Write it down. Tell someone.

You do not need to have been physically harmed for your experience to be valid. You do not need to have had a “bad enough” story. Feeling dismissed, ignored, rushed, or steamrolled when you were at your most vulnerable, that is enough. That counts.

To You, Reading This

If this sounds like your story, or parts of it, I want you to know that you are not alone, you are not dramatic, and you are not wrong for still thinking about it years later.

Birth trauma is real. The feeling of losing control of your own body during one of the most intimate moments of your life doesn’t just dissolve. It lingers. It resurfaces in quiet moments, in the smell of certain foods (RIP doner meat and chips, 2022–2022 😄), in the next pregnancy, in conversations you replay in your head.

We deserve better. Our daughters deserve better. And the only way things change is if we keep talking, even when it’s uncomfortable, even when it’s years later, even when we’re still carrying our babies and our grief at the same time.

Alhamdulillah for every healthy outcome. And accountability for every system that nearly prevented it.

Have you experienced something similar? I’d love to hear from you in the comments, by email, or simply by sharing this post with someone who needs to read it.