Nancy Ann Creed is a writer, teacher, poet, & mother. She enjoys writing poetry, paranormal stories and science fiction.
Nancy has always had stories in her head, but felt writing an entire book was too overwhelming. It wasn’t until she experienced the tremendous loss of a miscarriage that she began to write as it helped her overcome one of the darkest moments of her life.
Stay tuned for more and never give up on your dream.
Two years ago, the entire leadership team from my school embarked on a profoundly transformative professional development expedition to Atlanta, Georgia. The core objective of this significant journey was to visit and conduct intensive, first-hand observation of The Ron Clark Academy (RCA), a globally recognized non-profit middle school renowned for its innovative and dynamic teaching methodologies, its high student engagement, and its distinctly unique, vibrant school culture. Located in a renovated red brick warehouse in southeast Atlanta, RCA serves students in grades four through eight from a wide range of economic backgrounds. The school's co-founder, Kim Bearden, along with its namesake, Ron Clark, have cultivated an educational model that has inspired educators worldwide.
It is a source of personal regret that I have not yet been able to participate in this impactful trip. Initially, my exclusion was purely due to my not being a member of the official school leadership team, which was the sole group invited in the first year of the opportunity. However, in the subsequent year, as the possibility arose again, I remember earnestly praying that I would somehow be afforded the chance to go. The powerful, albeit painful, lesson I learned from this experience has now become my personal motto: "Ask and you shall receive," because, unfortunately, I never vocalized my strong desire to attend to anyone. I had kept that deep-seated wish entirely to myself, a silent aspiration that went unheard.
This observation trip proved to be a pivotal and eye-opening experience for our school's leadership, furnishing them with a wealth of concrete insights, immediately practical classroom strategies, and a deeper philosophical understanding of student-centric education. Upon their return, they commenced the diligent and focused work of implementing a substantial number of the learned techniques, philosophical underpinnings, and cultural elements into our own school environment. This was not a superficial adoption, but a committed, authentic integration of RCA's successful and proven models into our own unique context.
While I have not yet had the supreme opportunity to visit the physical school itself, I have taken every chance to extensively view a multitude of high-quality videos and photographs of The Ron Clark Academy. From this media, its vibrant, dynamic atmosphere truly appears remarkable and immensely inspiring. The school itself is distinctively and innovatively set up in a former warehouse facility located in downtown Atlanta, Georgia, which contributes profoundly to its unique, non-traditional identity and provides a wonderfully inspiring learning space far removed from the sterile, typical school setting. The environment itself is a powerful testament to the belief that the learning space should inspire creativity and passion.The Impact of the House System.
One of the most significant, visible, and universally successful cultural changes we implemented was the "House System," a structure famously utilized and perfected by RCA. This system is powerfully reminiscent of the house divisions found in the Harry Potter series, which instantly resonated with our students, injecting an immediate element of magic and fun. Our entire student body was strategically and purposefully divided into various houses, and the subsequent impact of this initiative has been nothing short of profound. The House System has skillfully fostered a powerful and deep-seated sense of belonging and community, ensuring that every single student feels like an integral and valued part of a larger, supportive group, thereby powerfully combating feelings of isolation and disconnection.
This increased sense of connection, camaraderie, and purpose has yielded tangible, measurable, and overwhelmingly positive results, most notably in student attendance. I have personally observed a noticeable and sustained increase in daily student attendance rates across all grade levels. In fact, the demonstrable success of this system was a direct factor contributing to our school proudly winning the district-wide high attendance award for all ten months of the previous school year. Furthermore, I am incredibly proud to report that we have continued this impressive and positive streak, successfully winning the award for every single month so far this current school year. The House System has not only been instrumental in boosting attendance but has also injected a completely new level of energy, excitement, positive peer competition, and overall enthusiasm into our daily school life.
Our school is currently organized into four distinct houses, which we named Amistad, Isibindi, Altruismo, and Rêveur—adopting the exact names used at The Ron Clark Academy. I have the honor of being one of the proud house leaders for Rêveur. The entire staff was asked to thoughtfully choose a house they felt they best aligned with, based on the core values.The Ron Clark Academy House System Values The Ron Clark Academy (RCA) houses are all themed around fundamental, positive character traits and deep multicultural connections. Their original names and associated values are:
Rêveur (Dreamers): This name is derived from French, meaning dreamers or idealists. It represents students who are passionate, imaginative visionaries who pursue their goals fearlessly, encouraging them to think big and challenge the status quo.
Amistad (Friendship): Rooted in Spanish and Mexican culture, this name signifies friendship. It strongly emphasizes kindness, unity, and an unconquered, resilient spirit, promoting collaboration and mutual respect.
Isibindi (Courage): Hailing from the Zulu language, this word means courageous. It focuses on strength and bravery, and is particularly helpful in encouraging shy or hesitant students to grow, find their voice, and take calculated risks.
Altruismo (Giving): Originating from Portuguese and Spanish, this name means the givers. It profoundly highlights the philosophy that the greatest rewards in life come from giving selflessly to others, fostering a culture of service and empathy.
These house names and their associated values are all strategically designed to foster a powerful sense of community, build strong leadership skills in all students, and promote healthy, positive competition through shared values and traditions, which are celebrated through ceremonies and house challenges.
When the staff was asked to choose their house, I thoroughly went through the core values of each, contemplating which house truly fit my personal and professional ethos the best. While I greatly admire the idea of friendship and the profound selflessness of giving, as a dedicated special education teacher, I frequently find myself deeply immersed in dreaming and wanting my students to reach for the stars—to aspire beyond their perceived limitations. I possess an unwavering passion and a resolute "never give up" attitude for my students' potential.
There is a common and poignant saying that when people stop pushing you, it is because they have given up on you. I refuse to ever give up on a student, regardless of the challenges they face. I firmly believe that there is inherent talent, capability, and fundamental good in all students and, indeed, in all people. This passionate belief in the limitless potential of my students and my commitment to helping them visualize a future beyond their current circumstances made my choice clear, and I proudly became a leader for Rêveur, the House of the Dreamers.A Dream Realized
Though I could never visit the school, I never gave up on that quiet, deep-seated wish. My personal motto, born from the initial disappointment, finally paved the way for a remarkable opportunity. In early fall, my principal sent all of us an email from Sonic, the restaurant (not the hedgehog, as is often joked). It was a scholarship application to win a chance—an all-expenses-paid trip—to go and visit The Ron Clark Academy and participate in an intensive, two-day educators' professional development workshop. I took about three days, working diligently on the application, meticulously crafting what I would say, how I would articulate my passion, and how I would convey my excitement and unwavering dedication to my students and their future.
On December 10th, I found out that I was chosen to go to this professional development session. I screamed with pure elation when I got the email. It felt like the universe had finally rewarded my silent, persistent dream. I have no idea exactly what I will learn, what new strategies I will bring back, or how my perspective will shift, but I am always incredibly excited to learn new things and bring best practices back to my school and my students. This is the fulfillment of a long-held aspiration.
The Ron Clark Academy, a non-profit middle school, is housed in a renovated red brick warehouse located in southeast Atlanta, Georgia, United States. Founded by Ron Clark and co-founder Kim Bearden, the school has students in fourth through eighth grades, from a wide range of economic backgrounds.
The world changed overnight… 🧟♀️ Are you ready for the fight for survival? Dive into "Zombie: The Survivors" by Nancy Ann Creed and see who makes it out alive. Tap the link in bio to grab your copy! What's the first thing you'd grab in a zombie apocalypse?
When 'Wait and See' Isn't Enough: My Journey of Medical Advocacy
I wrote this about 12 years ago but it still rings true.
For a month now, a deep, persistent fire has been burning in my gut. It's more than just an uneasy feeling; it's a profound, urgent need to share my story, particularly as a cautionary tale for other women. Yet, this internal wrestling match with my own complex emotions—fear, relief, anxiety—has held the words captive. I’m finally ready to speak.
Here is the crux of my message, something we’ve all heard countless times, but whose weight I now understand: Listen to your body. In a world where doctors are busy and systems are overwhelmed, you are the final authority on what is happening within you. A doctor might dismiss your concerns or tell you to wait and see, but you know when something is fundamentally wrong. It is, after all, your body, and you are its only constant advocate.-----My journey into hyper-vigilance started after my son's birth. I expected the postpartum bleeding—it's a natural, inevitable part of recovery. It initially stopped, which I took as a sign of normal healing. However, a short time later, the bleeding started again. This second bout was confusing. Was this a resurgence of normal postpartum lochia, or was it something else entirely? I decided that when it came to my health, I would always err on the side of caution.
My primary care doctor was the first person to truly listen. I explained that the bleeding had stopped once and that the renewed flow didn't feel like a typical menstrual period. Crucially, I noted that the bleeding only seemed to occur during bowel movements. Recognizing that this pattern wasn't typical for postpartum recovery, my doctor immediately shifted focus and referred me to a gastroenterologist for a specialized evaluation.
The gastroenterologist recommended a colonoscopy. The procedure, though daunting, proved to be an invaluable diagnostic tool. It revealed a number of polyps in my colon. They were removed and sent for testing, and the results were sobering: some of the polyps showed precancerous signs. This meant they harbored the potential to develop into full-blown cancer over time. The diagnosis necessitated a commitment to regular, vigilant colonoscopies to monitor my health and catch any future growths early.
This initial health scare hammered home the valuable lesson I now preach: trust your intuition. If a feeling persists that something is "off," do not hesitate to speak to your doctor. And here is the essential second part: if your doctor minimizes your concerns or fails to investigate them seriously, you have the right and the responsibility to find a new doctor—one who will be your partner and advocate in your health journey.-----A few years later, my body sent a new signal. I noticed my menstrual periods had become significantly heavier than usual. Concerned, I made an appointment with my gynecologist. I laid out my medical history, and my doctor explained that while having had three C-sections can sometimes lead to a thickening of the uterine lining, this wasn't necessarily the direct cause of the unusually heavy bleeding.
To investigate further and rule out any abnormalities, my gynecologist recommended an endometrial biopsy. This procedure, while not as comfortable as a Pap smear (which can involve some stinging), was manageable. It involves taking a small tissue sample from the lining of the uterus to be analyzed for any cellular changes or growths. Fortunately, the results came back normal, which was an immense relief, allowing us to focus on monitoring the situation.
Adding a layer of complexity to my case was my family history. My mother tragically passed away from ovarian cancer when I was just 11 years old. Given this profound and devastating history, I underwent genetic testing to see if I carried the gene mutation associated with the disease. Thankfully, those initial test results were negative, indicating I did not carry the mutation.
However, after a few years and a move to a new area, I needed to establish care with a new gynecologist. When I explained my medical narrative—the history of heavier periods, my age and the approach of menopause, and my strong family history—she introduced the idea of an oophorectomy (surgical removal of the ovaries). She candidly discussed the generally positive benefits of the procedure for high-risk patients. Crucially, she acknowledged that negative genetic tests, while reassuring, are not foolproof. A positive test confirms the presence of the gene, but a negative result does not always guarantee its absence, especially when combined with a strong family history and other physical symptoms.
My new gynecologist ordered repeat genetic testing. The results were again negative for the specific gene mutation, but this time, the report included a higher risk score. This score indicated that my overall risk of developing ovarian or related cancers was slightly elevated compared to the average population. This score, while not confirming a genetic mutation, served a critical purpose: it allowed my doctor to professionally justify the prophylactic oophorectomy to my insurance company, thereby securing coverage for the ovary removal. While the necessity of having to justify a proactive, life-saving medical procedure to a detached insurance entity is a source of frustration, that is a broader systemic discussion for another time.-----My journey has recently taken its most serious turn. During a routine ultrasound, a mass was discovered in my uterus. I have an upcoming surgery scheduled for June to address this. The doctors are transparent: they won't know the exact nature of the mass—whether it's benign, a fibroid, or something more serious—until it is surgically removed and analyzed.
Initially, my doctor recommended a targeted approach: removing both my ovaries (the oophorectomy) and the mass itself. We also had a crucial discussion about a more comprehensive procedure: a full hysterectomy, which involves the removal of the uterus, cervix, and fallopian tubes, in addition to the ovaries. This option would offer the ultimate peace of mind, eliminating any future concerns about the current uterine mass or the potential for other growths. After careful, deliberate consideration of my history, my risk profile, and the desire for finality, I decided to proceed with the full hysterectomy.
This decision is deeply personal and fraught with emotion. I don't speak with anyone who knew my mother well, for reasons that are theirs, not mine. I was too young to truly understand what she went through, both the visible signs of her illness and the unseen emotional turmoil. I don't know what she truly felt or if she, too, had ignored an internal warning. I know, with absolute certainty, that I am making the right, proactive decision for my health and future. Yet, the finality of the surgery still fills me with a profound sense of fear. The recovery is expected to be lengthy, approximately two months. As a teacher, I deliberately scheduled the surgery for the summer break, a practical necessity, but the reality of the impending ordeal remains unsettling.
Right now, I am living in a space of suspended emotion—nervous about the surgery and the recovery, but overwhelmingly relieved that my constant vigilance and willingness to listen to my body have allowed me to find this out now, rather than discovering it when it might have been too late. The fight continues, and I hope my story empowers at least one other woman to champion her own health.
'
Steel Butterflies
Steel butterflies flutter in my chest,
Wings cold and sharp, an unwelcome guest.
A relentless, metallic tremor starts its dance,
Anxiety's form, granting no second chance.
It's more than simple jitters, a bone-felt dread,
A necessary crisis swirling in my head.
The calendar page is marked, an ominous decree,
June looms closer, a date known sharp and free.
Surgery’s shadow stretches long across the floor,
A definitive threshold I must step across the door.
An inevitable appointment, ever near its due,
A silent promise of change, tinged with fear anew.
A mass unknown, a cellular mystery undefined,
A whispered fright that occupies the forefront of my mind.
My body's map, familiar, now holds a foreign blight,
A rebellion microscopic, far from the reach of light.
The doctors speak in measured terms of scope and possibility,
But the ultimate decision rests on me, fueled by fragility.
Ovaries, uterus, the devastating choice unfolds before my gaze,
To surrender what defines my feminine past in surgical maze.
A path of profound loss, a severance from history's keep,
A painful story yet untold, cloaked in misery deep.
My mother's journey, a fragmented memory veiled in mist,
An unspoken, generational echo I find I cannot resist.
Did she face this same dark labyrinth, this medical might?
Was she afraid, truly afraid, in the lonely hours of the night?
Did physical tremors shake her hands, betraying her soul,
When faced with choices monumental, to make herself whole?
I search her silence for a clue, a comforting past's sound,
But find only inherited courage, holding firm to the ground.
The operating theatre waits, cold and sterile in its air,
The scalpel's glint, a swift flash, a silent, binding prayer.
A sterile gleam reflecting a future I must forfeit and quit,
A stolen dream of what might have been, a sorrowful, waking hit.
The recovery's road ahead promises a demanding, weary climb,
An arduous journey back to strength, measured in fleeting time.
There will be pain, of course, and scars that tell an enduring tale,
But hope remains, persistent, a flickering rhyme in the gale.
For health's embrace, for the promise of a future free from this dark curse,
A necessary, heavy price I’ll pay, though my spirit constantly traverse.
Though fear still whispers its insidious doubts in the silent, gray unknown,
I listen for the stronger voice of resilience that guides me, fully grown.
This body, subjected to the test, wounded but not defeated, will mend,
Finding a deeper strength in broken places, a journey without end.
The steel butterflies will eventually fly away from my heart’s sound,
Replaced by the steady rhythm of healing, firmly on the ground.
I lost the ones I thought would be
An immutable part of my life's tapestry,
Woven forever. Their sudden fraying left
A hollow space, of laughter now bereft.
A loss not just of presence, but of promised time,
Of futures guaranteed, of permanence sublime.
I lost the endless, open channel's flow,
The casual intimate, the profound talk's low.
The message history remains, a silent tomb,
But the living dialogue has met its doom.
I lost the shared language, the inside joke's release,
The easy flow of thought that came with sustained peace.
I lost. And yet, a nagging question stays:
How to reclaim it all through monumental days?
More honest now, a deeper query rings:
Do I want the fragments back, the broken things,
Or is this void an opportunity instead,
For a different, stronger rebuilding from the dead?
I am Socially Impaired, a deep deficiency,
No compass for connection's subtle geography.
I cannot decode the rules that ever shift,
To make a friend, or keep one from the drift.
No knowledge of the delicate dance to start,
Nor sustained effort to hold a drifting heart.
The world outside, a dizzying, digital torrent,
Of career demands, and social lives hyper-currant.
My mind, a labyrinth of static and confusion,
Makes reaching out a Herculean illusion.
The busy world's quick rhythm, my slow, internal pace,
Exacerbate the disconnect in this human space.
I am Socially Impaired, an alien I feel,
A non-native in a world that seems unreal.
Effortless for others, each social interaction
Requires exhausting, conscious translation.
Lost in this world of confusion, inescapable, vast,
The mechanics of connection hold me fast.
What proper alchemy transforms the passing name,
An acquaintance pleasant, into a trusted flame?
What ritual's required to solidify the friend,
To confidant and pillar, on whom one can depend?
How to tend this garden so it thrives, not withers thin?
The vital lessons of these bonds were never written in.
In this struggle, I lost my authentic self's deep call,
My unique longings muffled by the noise of it all.
Lost beneath the effort to be what others sought,
My own desires indistinct, in the battles fought.
I lost the subtle nuances, the unspoken art,
The reading of the body, the comforting hand's part.
The effortless mirroring of mood, the perfect timing's grace,
The tools that equip others to master social space.
Without them, I operated blind in the dense fog,
Lost in isolation's self-doubt, like a log.
But then a tectonic shift occurred within the night,
The fog dispersed, pierced by an internal light.
The finding was no external, sudden grace,
But a revelation born from that empty space.
I Found a core of unshakeable strength inside,
No longer contingent on where others reside.
A self-sustaining power, a bedrock I possess,
To hold and to rely upon in times of stress.
I Found new forms of connection, soul-deep and true,
With people who truly see me, and see me anew.
Bonds built on mutual resilience, not proximity's plea,
These are the conversations that will not end for me.
I Found a powerful, relentless love, not on condition,
A self-acceptance, a profound self-compassion.
No longer scanning horizons for where worth has fled,
I carry the source within, in the words I have said.
It is a love that will not quit, a permanent estate,
A fortress built from inside, sealed by my own gate.
Before the birth of my second child, Van, who is now fourteen, I wrote this reflection. My thoughts were consumed by the looming decision regarding his delivery, a topic that held particular weight because his older sister, Zelda, had been born via Cesarean section. The experience with Zelda naturally led us to question the safest and best approach for the next delivery. The medical term that dominated our discussions was Vaginal Birth After C-section (VBAC). The prospect was alluring—the promise of a standard delivery and recovery—but it came with a significant degree of anxiety and risk. On the other hand, a planned repeat C-section offered a predictable, though major, surgical procedure.
Ultimately, after careful consideration and consultation with our doctors, Van was born via C-section in the end. This was a deliberate choice. A major factor in our decision was the estimate of his size; he was projected to be larger than Zelda was at birth. Given the potential complications associated with a larger baby and a VBAC—including the elevated risk of an emergency situation—we concluded that a scheduled C-section was the prudent and safest path forward for both me and for Van. Looking back, we remain confident that we made the best decision possible given the medical circumstances and information available to us at the time.
This period of deliberation was particularly intense, and a memory that solidified our choice came from a friend who was navigating the very same decision. Unlike us, she was determined to have a vaginal birth. Tragically, her attempt to deliver vaginally had a severe complication: the baby eventually had to be delivered via emergency C-section because her uterine scar ruptured. That outcome was a powerful, sobering reminder of the very real risks involved in a VBAC and served to validate our decision to proceed with a planned C-section for Van.
👶 C-Section or VBAC: A Personal Dilemma November 6, 2010 A Crossroads in the Journey: Weighing the Path for Baby Van
My husband, Devin, and I find ourselves at a significant and emotionally charged crossroads, desperately trying to discern the safest and most responsible path forward for the arrival of our new baby, Van. Devin, ever my rock, is completely wonderful and has expressed his contentment in leaving the ultimate decision to me. Yet, this freedom, while loving, leaves me utterly and completely torn between two very different medical routes. The core of my internal debate revolves around the stark reality that both a planned, repeat Cesarean section and the attempt at a VBAC (Vaginal Birth After C-section) carry distinct and real risks. This isn't a theoretical concern; it’s rooted in our history. Our first child, our daughter Zelda, was born via an emergency C-section back in October 2009. Now, with Van due in January 2011, the pregnancies are undeniably close—separated by only fifteen months. This remarkably short inter-pregnancy interval is the single factor that haunts my thoughts, as I constantly worry about how it impacts the integrity of my uterine scar and, consequently, the safety of my decision.
My doctor has been a source of both extensive knowledge and, paradoxically, conflicting advice. Her insights are helpful, but they pull me in two different directions. On the one hand, she strongly suggested that a VBAC would be the preferable route if our family's long-term vision includes having more children. It would reduce the accumulated risk of multiple major abdominal surgeries. On the other hand, she was quick to reassure me of the relative safety of repeat procedures, noting that I could safely have three C-sections, and we all know people who have gone on to successfully manage four!
This is where my deepest, most agonizing fear resides: the potential to inadvertently place Van in danger. The thought of pursuing a VBAC simply to preserve the option for a larger family down the road feels selfish if it means even a fraction of a percent increase in risk for my baby boy now. I am consumed by the singular desire to know, unequivocally, which of these two paths—a surgical birth or a trial of labor—offers the healthiest start for my baby boy. It’s a decision that feels too heavy to carry alone, and I would genuinely welcome any thoughts, shared experiences, or perspectives from others who have faced this delicate and difficult medical dilemma.
The Case for a Scheduled C-Section
The decision to schedule the birth of our second child is overwhelmingly influenced by practical considerations, a choice that promises to significantly simplify our lives. The logistics surrounding Devin's demanding job make a planned event almost a necessity; eliminating the uncertainty of when labor might strike ensures he can arrange his work schedule with confidence, minimizing potential disruption and stress for him. Furthermore, arranging childcare for our first daughter, Zelda, is greatly simplified. My cousin, who has graciously offered to help, would benefit immensely from a concrete date, allowing her to make firm plans without the anxiety of a last-minute emergency call.
Beyond the external logistics, scheduling a C-section offers a path to avoid the intense emotional and physical stress I experienced during Zelda’s birth. That spontaneous labor ultimately devolved into a frantic, emergency Cesarean section, a traumatic experience I am keen to prevent repeating. Since a medical induction, which was attempted with Zelda, is not an option this time, choosing a scheduled surgery provides a sense of control and predictability that a trial of labor simply cannot.
There are also encouraging assurances regarding the recovery process. I've been advised that a second C-section is often associated with a faster and easier recovery than the first. This is a considerable benefit in itself, but it also translates into a more extended period of approved time off work, a crucial factor for both my physical and mental recuperation.
The advantages of a planned surgery extend to the medical setting as well. A scheduled date means I can actively choose my preferred surgeon, ensuring continuity of care with a doctor I trust. The operating room environment will be calm, prepared, and routine, far removed from the rush, worry, and fear associated with a sudden, unscheduled emergency. We can walk into the hospital knowing exactly what to expect.
However, the weight of this decision rests on one major, permanent drawback. Committing to a scheduled C-section means accepting that a vaginal birth is no longer a possibility for me. Every future child we are blessed with will, by necessity, have to be delivered via Cesarean section. This single choice sets the course for all our future births.
The Appeal of a VBAC
The upcoming delivery is consuming my thoughts, primarily because of the intense desire for a successful Vaginal Birth After Cesarean (VBAC). The very idea of achieving a vaginal delivery is tremendously exciting—it's a deeply personal milestone that offers such freedom. A successful VBAC would finally open up the possibility of having more children in the future without the looming certainty of another major surgery every single time. It would mean that my family planning is dictated by nature and readiness, not by a surgeon's calendar.
Beyond the long-term implications, I strongly believe a vaginal delivery will make the immediate postpartum period much easier to navigate. I vividly remember the grueling recovery from my first C-section; the incision pain, the inability to move easily, and the extended time before I truly felt like myself again. I imagine, and desperately hope, that the post-delivery pain following a VBAC won't be nearly as intense or debilitating, allowing me to be more present and active with my newborn, Van.
Regarding the logistics of the delivery, I've made the firm decision to have an epidural. This was not a choice made lightly but was largely influenced by the medical advice I received. The doctors presented it as a crucial safety net: in the event that the trial of labor became unstable or if we encountered an emergency that necessitated a repeat C-section, they could simply administer additional anesthetic through the already-placed epidural line. This would eliminate the dangerous time delay of having to perform general anesthesia.
However, the single biggest factor driving my preference for a VBAC is the timing of the birth. A vaginal delivery allows Van to determine his own birthday, coming when his body and lungs are truly ready. I have a profound anxiety about the standard C-section protocol, which typically schedules the surgery a week or two earlier than the due date to prevent the onset of labor. I worry that this premature exit will deprive him of the final, necessary days or even weeks of development in the womb—time that is so vital for the maturation of his organs and systems. The thought of him coming out before he has reached his optimal readiness weighs heavily on me.
Conclusion I understand and deeply respect that the doctors and medical team are the experts, possessing the knowledge and experience to guide this process safely. Yet, despite their assurances and statistics, this choice feels so immense, so personal, and so loaded with emotional weight. It is not just a medical procedure; it is the gateway to my child’s life and a defining moment in my own journey as a mother. I am finding myself at a crossroads, balancing medical recommendations against my strong maternal instincts and deeply felt desires. More than anything, I am hoping to connect with other mothers who have walked this path—to hear what specific challenges they faced during their own VBAC attempts, what resources or conversations ultimately helped them find peace and certainty about their final decision, and how they reconciled the inherent risks with the profound reward.
On January 17, 2011, I gave birth via-c-section to a healthy baby boy. He is not 14 years old and in the 8th grade.
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