I finally carried a pregnancy to term. When I was 36 weeks, I had a necessary but horrifying conversation with an obstetrician about what happens in the worst-case scenario of an in-utero death for a scene in my book. It was a conversation that cemented my decision to have a very medicalised birth. I wanted the security of as many experts on hand as possible while understanding this was the opposite of what so many women – not just freebirthers – desire.

I still followed freebirthers, both on the groups and on TikTok, which fed me increasingly radical content. In the week leading up to my scheduled C-section, I watched on TikTok as a woman who’d given birth in her bathtub kept her placenta attached to her body in a plastic container, scattering herbs over the now-external organ to best preserve it.

Freebirthing isn’t just about having a magical birthing experience. It’s about the vulnerabilities of navigating fertility struggles and the minefield of information surrounding pregnancy. It’s about belonging and the lengths we go to feel in control of our bodies and our lives. But it’s also about danger.

It takes years of training to become an obstetrician (seven) or midwife (three) – years of expertise that I saw freebirthing communities dismiss outright. That mistrust haunted me, not because these women are wrong to feel cautious, but because in my opinion, it leaves them vulnerable to misinformation. In the worst cases, it costs lives.

“I spent months undercover in freebirthing communities – this is what I learned from the women choosing to birth alone”