The Invisible War On Women

“A fierce memoir of birth, betrayal and truth, one woman’s rise through pain, power, and reclamation! .” - Kelly Kingston

Introduction:

The Invisible WOW no body talks about…

Before You Judge.

The Fire in her Belly

She Said I Couldn’t. So I Did. She is me!

This is really juicy better get comfy this will be a 8-12 minute read! a 🍷 or ☕️

"No one judged me harder than I judged myself."

But there comes a day when truth must be faced inside the soul or inside a courtroom, the lead up to this is what no-one sees.

Trigger Warning: This is my personal story and lived reflection. It is shared from my truth, not to harm, or hurt anyone, but to give voice to my experience. It contains deeply personal and potentially confronting content. Please read at your own discretion. 🩷

Let’s the story begin…

Once upon a time I was nineteen years old, I was told I may never have children.

The truth is, the story began long before that. At fourteen, I started receiving an injection called Depo-Provera. I was told it was safe. I was told that when I stopped taking it, my natural cycle would return. I was told my body would find its way back.

But that was not what happened.

For twelve years, that injection altered my reproductive system. When I finally stopped taking it at eighteen, my body was already showing signs that something was deeply wrong. My skin erupted in severe acne. I gained so much weight I barely recognised myself. I felt uncomfortable in my own skin, confused in my own mind, and completely disconnected from my body.

I did not have the wisdom then that I have now. I only had instinct. And my instinct, in all its wounded innocence, was to try to regain control however I could. So I stopped eating.

What I know now is that I had unknowingly thrown myself into a kind of fasting. But it was not grounded in health or healing. It came from desperation. For more than four weekends, I survived on water, scotch and cola, and a packet of Winfield Blues a day. That was my version of coping. That was what not knowing looked like. That was what pain looked like when it had nowhere wise to go.

And still, despite what I had been told, at twenty-six years old I fell pregnant with my first child.

I wanted a natural birth with all my heart. I wanted the sacredness of it. I wanted to trust my body and experience the power that women speak of when they talk about bringing life into the world. I wanted to believe that my body knew what to do.

But nothing could have prepared me for the birth that followed.

My waters broke sometime just after five o’clock in the morning. I remember the nerves, the excitement, and the fear. I was trying to stay calm, trying to breathe through what I knew was the beginning of something life-changing. But then the contractions came hard and fast, relentless and intense. Three minutes on, three minutes off. There was no gentle easing in. No slow unfolding. My body had gone straight into battle.

We drove to the hospital, and when the midwife assessed me, things moved quickly. I was already six centimetres dilated. It was all action, all urgency, all momentum.

But six hours into labour, something shifted.

I felt as though I had been hit by a bus. I must have looked like it too. My body was exhausted, and deep down I knew something wasn’t right. My baby was stuck. Nothing was moving. Nothing was progressing. The labour that had started so fiercely had come to a halt, and with that halt came the beginning of a very different kind of fear.

They gave me an epidural. The pain subsided, but what replaced it was not peace. What replaced it was distance, confusion, and vulnerability. For the next twenty-four hours, I felt like a body on display. Doctors and nurses came in and out of the room constantly. There were questions, examinations, conversations over me and around me. At one point there were what felt like fifteen people in my room. I was lying there with my legs in stirrups, heavily medicated, exposed, and deeply disempowered.

I no longer felt like a woman giving birth.

I felt like a case.

After twenty-nine hours of labour, one of the senior doctors told me my baby’s heart rate was dropping significantly. Suddenly, everything escalated. There was no time to process. No space to ask questions. No chance to gather myself. I was told I was being taken into emergency surgery.

What I remember next lives in flashes.

I remember the operating theatre light above me huge, bright, cold. I remember hearing someone say they were starting. I remember feeling a cut, even though I should not have felt anything at all. I screamed, My whole body convulsed. There was panic in the room. Raised voices, urgency. Then darkness.

When I woke up, I was in ICU.

My body was covered in calamine lotion. My skin was red raw. I was clawing at myself, screaming that there was something on my skin. I looked, I imagine, like something out of a horror film. It was later that I learned I had suffered an allergic reaction to Pethidine. My body, already pushed to its edge, had been tipped even further into trauma.

For hours they tried to settle me.

And the strangest, saddest part of all was this: I did not even know whether I had given birth to a boy or a girl.

That moment will sit with me forever. After everything that had happened after all the labour, the fear, the surgery, the chaos I had not even been able to meet my little baby.

Then finally, six hours later, they brought him to me.

My beautiful baby boy.

We had both fought like hell to get him earthside.

That boy is now twenty-five years old, and I can say with complete certainty that I love him even more today than I did the first moment I saw him and held him. Perhaps because I know what it cost for us both to arrive there. Perhaps because there is something sacred about surviving something together.

After that birth, my next two pregnancies were also chosen elective caesareans, as doctors said it was way to risky to try a natural birth again, so I was not willing to take chances. Not after what I had already endured. Not after what my body and spirit had already lived through.

Three children came into my life. Two relationships failed. Life kept moving, and so did I. On the outside, I kept going. On the inside, though, there were still stories living in my body that had not yet been healed.

Then, at thirty-eight, I met a man who truly saw me.

Not the polished version.

Not the performing version.

Not the woman who had learned to survive by wearing masks and telling herself stories.

He saw me.

He saw the pain beneath the strength.

He heard the dreams that were so big they scared even me.

He heard the lies I had told myself just to keep going. And still, he loved me.

I was a single mother of three with a complicated past, deep wounds, and a life that was anything but simple.

But he loved me anyway.

He was the first man I could tell everything to.

My secrets.

My shame.

My pain.

My truth.

And when he heard it all, he did not turn away.

He stayed.

Our love grew stronger with every passing moment. There was a steadiness to it, a safety I had never known. Then, just 3 months into our relationship it was official we moved in together and 12 months later we fell pregnant.

It came as a shock to us both.

We had done everything in our power to avoid that outcome. He monitored my menstrual cycle as though it were military timing. We were careful, Intentional, and Conscious. And still, this little soul was coming.

Rain, hail or shine, nothing was stopping this soul.

Stay with me here the ending will be worth staying for, I promise….

We had hard conversations. Honest conversations. Emotional conversations. We spoke about not going ahead with the pregnancy. It was painful, confusing, and heavy for both of us. But in the end, we chose to keep the baby.

And what happened next was one of the greatest love stories of my life.

Together, we began preparing not just for a baby, but for a different kind of birth. A healing birth. A reclaiming birth. A birth that would restore something in me that had once been taken.

I knew this would be my last chance to birth naturally.

And I wanted it at home more than anything.

I wanted to meet this baby in my own space, in my own power, in my own rhythm. I wanted to prepare myself fully mind, body and soul. And my husband, with a devotion that still moves me when I think of it, supported me every single day and my 3 children.

This was not casual preparation. This was sacred preparation. This was ceremony before ceremony. We were preparing for a home birth in every way we knew how, with reverence, commitment, and love.

The doctors thought I was reckless. They told me I was stupid. They told me I was crazy. My midwife refused to be at the birth because I was considered a liability.

But then I found her.

A woman I can only describe as a divine feminine force angelic soul, My doula.

She was grounded, fierce, deeply intuitive, calm under pressure, and protective in all the right ways. She did not bring fear into the room. She brought presence. She put her hand up and said yes to supporting me, my husband, and our unborn baby on this journey.

There were no scans.

No dyed drinks.

No vaccines.

No internal checks.

Just me.

My husband.

My baby.

And our doula.

At nine months and three weeks, at exactly 5:26pm on a Thursday afternoon, my waters broke.

And this time, I was ready.

I was present in a way I had never been before.

Fully aware.

Fully trusting.

Fully surrendered to the intelligence of my body and the guidance moving through me.

And just like my first labour, the contractions came hard and fast. Three minutes on, three minutes off. Like clockwork.

But this time there was

no gas

no epidural

no drugs

no hospital machinery

no one taking over.

There was only my breath, my body, my belief, and the knowing that this baby deserved the clearest pathway possible into her physical life.

I will not romanticise it.

It was intense.

At one point, around four hours in, I was ready to give up. The pain was enormous. The pressure was immense. I questioned whether I could continue. But in that moment, my husband reminded me of everything we had done to get there. He reminded me of the promises we had made. He reminded me of the journey we had walked to arrive at this exact point.

And somehow, from that remembering, more strength came.

My mantra became simple:

I am love. I am the pathway.

Three hours later, our daughter completed her journey earthside.

Seven hours of labour.

In my bedroom.

In my home.

She came head first, landing on the floor, held by her daddy’s support and the sacred steadiness of the space we had created around her.

It was everything I had longed for and more.

My doula was extraordinary.

My husband was the grounded masculine every woman deserves beside her.

And I became the woman they said I could never be.

A woman once told she may never have children.

A woman who had been taught not to trust her body.

A woman who had been cut, medicated, dismissed, and doubted.

A woman who had walked through trauma and still chose to open again.

A woman who reclaimed what was hers.

They said I could not.

But my life became proof that I could.

And I did.

The reason I have shared this birthing story is because the moral of this story is simple: when a woman has walked through pain, fear, betrayal, trauma, and still found the strength to rise, there is very little she will not do when love, belief, and determination live in her bones.

So when I say I am going to do something, understand this I do not speak lightly.

When I move,

I move with love.

When I decide,

I decide with belief.

When I stand,

I stand with determination.

And when something in me knows that enough is enough, you can bet, I will find the strength, the voice, and the courage to bring awareness to what must be seen.

Because here’s the thing,

I have not survived all that I have survived to stay silent while women are misled, manipulated, disrespected, or taken advantage of in business, and any other women that stands by knowing who this person is and allows it deserves the same!

I have not come this far to watch people smile to your face, speak poorly behind your back, avoid accountability, and expect there to be no consequence for the harm they cause.

What this situation has given me is fire.

The kind of fire that awakens conviction.

The kind of fire that says enough is enough.

The kind of fire that reminds a woman who she is.

So here is my promise:

I will not be silenced.

I will not be intimidated.

I will not be dismissed.

And I will definitely not stop until the truth has had its day, and believe you me it’s coming!

What is hidden always comes to light.

What is done in the dark is always revealed.

And those who profit from the mistreatment of others will, in time, be called to account.

I am no longer asking for what is right.

I am standing for it.

And I will do so with strength, truth, and the full weight of the voice I fought hard to reclaim.

See you in court, I really hope you are ready!

Do not light a fire you cannot control. 🔥

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