Both of my babies were born via scheduled cesareans. Even though I’d already been through one, I still had a stomach full of butterflies (and not the good kind) the second time around. You’d think I’d be calmer, more collected, or at least slightly more mentally prepared the second time, right? Nope. I was just as nervous, just as weepy, and just as caught in a loop of anxious thoughts.
If you’ve had a belly birth, a term I love because it sounds so much softer and kinder than “major abdominal surgery,” you might relate to these thoughts that raced through my mind in the hours (and days) leading up to it. If you’re preparing for your first, I hope this makes you feel less alone. You’re not crazy. You’re not being dramatic. You’re just a mum, doing the bravest thing in the world.
Here are six of the most common (and slightly irrational, but normal) thoughts I had before my scheduled c-section, plus all the emotions behind them.
6 Thoughts Of Mum Before C-Section
1. Will I feel them slice me open? Oh yuck.
This was my number one fear both times, and I have a sneaking suspicion I’m not the only mum who’s ever been haunted by this thought. It usually starts as a casual worry, “Will the spinal block work?” and quickly spirals into something out of a horror movie. “What if it doesn’t? What if I feel them cutting into me? What if they start and I scream, but I can’t move because I’m paralysed from the chest down?”
Suddenly, your brain conjures up the most graphic scene imaginable. You picture scalpels. You imagine the sizzle of a cauterising tool. You think about the smell. Ugh. And then what, you’re nauseous.
Here’s the truth: no, you won’t feel them slice you open. You’ll feel pressure, some tugging, maybe a sensation that someone is doing the dishes inside your stomach, but not pain. Not the sting, not the burn, not the cut. The anaesthetists are there for exactly that reason. They’re amazing, professional, and constantly checking in with you. I remember mine asking, “Can you feel this?” about a dozen times before the surgery even began. Trust me — they don’t start until they’re 100% sure you’re numb. But that doesn’t stop the thought from circling, especially at 3 a.m. when you’re lying awake, staring at the ceiling.
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2. How can I shave down there when I can’t even see my toes?
Ah, yes, the pre-surgery grooming saga. Somewhere in the middle of the third trimester, I became very aware of the fact that I could no longer see below my belly button, let alone perform any kind of delicate maintenance. And yet, I was told during a prenatal appointment to make sure I was “cleaned up” down there for the surgery.
Excuse me, what?
The bump was enormous, my ankles were swollen, my back ached, and bending over had become a long-lost luxury. The idea of shaving my bikini line sounded like an Olympic-level event. And who was going to help? My husband? He trims his beard with reckless abandon and often ends up with a patchy jawline. I wasn’t about to hand him a razor and let him go wild near my nether regions.
I considered booking a wax, but then I remembered that pain and I thought? You’re afraid of getting your stomach cut open, but still trying to dodge a wax? Absolutely. I’ll take surgery over hot wax on my lady bits any day.
Eventually, I asked my mum. Yep, we’ve reached that level of relationship. Honestly, after having kids, all dignity goes out the window anyway. And if you don’t get around to it? Don’t stress. The nurses are pros. If they need to, they’ll give you a quick tidy-up at the hospital. You’re not the first woman to roll in with a bush.
3. Oh, that mama better not bump me.
The c-section waiting game is unlike anything else. You get told, “Come in at 7 a.m.,” so you do. You don’t eat. You don’t drink. You haven’t slept. You’re a bundle of nerves wearing compression socks and a giant hospital gown, camped out in a room full of equally nervous mamas.
You’re told you’re third on the list. But then an emergency c-section happens. And then another. And you get bumped down. Again. You smile politely. You nod. You understand. Of course, emergencies come first. But when you’re going on seven hours without food, your baby is karate-kicking your bladder, and your nerves are stretched thinner than dental floss, your patience starts to wobble.
Then you see her. That mum who walked in five minutes ago, casually scrolling on her phone, looking way too calm. Is she going ahead of me? No. No, no, no. I swear, if they call her name before mine, I’m going to lose it. My stomach is empty, my bladder is full, and my soul is hanging by a thread.
But eventually, it’s your turn. They call your name. You hug your partner. You wobble into the theatre. And suddenly, it’s all happening. Time slows down and speeds up all at once.
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4. What if I pass out?
The idea of being fully awake during surgery? It’s bizarre. You’re lying on a table, awake and alert, while a team of highly trained people is performing a medical miracle just below your chest. The thought alone is enough to make your brain want to check out.
In the lead-up, I kept thinking: What if I faint from sheer terror? What if I start sobbing and hyperventilating and completely miss the moment my baby is born?
The moment they wheeled me into the theatre, I felt like I was floating. Not in a whimsical way, more like, “Am I dissociating from fear right now?” The sterile lights, the buzzing monitors, and the nurses bustling about it were like an out-of-body experience. The spinal went in (which wasn’t as scary as I’d built it up to be, by the way), and then the numbness crept up my legs.
I told the anaesthetist I felt woozy. He looked at me with the kindest eyes and said, “That’s normal. We’ve got you.”
And just like that, I didn’t pass out. I didn’t miss anything. I stayed present. I heard the cry. I saw my baby. And every fear melted.
5. What if something goes wrong?
This is the big one. The mother of all fears. The one that keeps you up at night, lying next to your partner who’s blissfully snoring, while your mind goes to very, very dark places.
Because the truth is, a cesarean is still surgery. And no matter how many times people say, “It’s routine, it’s safe,” there’s still that nagging worry: What if something goes wrong?
What if the baby’s not breathing? What if I hemorrhage? What if they can’t stop the bleeding? What if I don’t wake up?
It’s terrifying. There’s no sugarcoating it. You feel vulnerable in a way that’s hard to describe. Like you’re about to hand over complete control to a room of strangers, and you just have to trust that everything will be okay.
I remember praying—not in a religious way, but just in that quiet, desperate way you do when you’re holding hope in your heart like a fragile glass ball. I hoped my obstetrician had slept. I hoped my baby was strong. I hoped I was strong.
And we made it. You will too.
6. Will I bond with my baby?
This is one of those thoughts that creeps up quietly, in between the fear and the logistics. It’s not shouted, it’s whispered from that inner voice that questions your instincts.
Will I feel that overwhelming rush of love? Or will I just feel numb? Physically and emotionally?
With my first, the bonding took a few days. I was in pain. I was exhausted. My body felt foreign. The nurses handed me this tiny, squirming human, and I remember thinking, “You’re beautiful. I’m just not sure what to do with you yet.
And that’s okay. That’s normal. Love doesn’t always roar into the room like a hurricane. Sometimes it tiptoes in quietly, like the first rays of morning light. It grows.
With my second, it came quicker. The moment they lifted him above that blue curtain, and I saw his squishy little face, something clicked. Maybe it was familiarity. Maybe it was trust. Maybe it was knowing I’d done it before, and I could do it again.
No matter how it happens fast or slow the bond will come. It might look different from what you imagined. It might take time. But it’s real. It’s deep. It’s yours.
Conclusion
Whether it’s your first cesarean or your fifth, the fears are valid. The thoughts are normal. You’re not crazy for worrying about razors and hospital queues and bonding hormones.
You’re a mum. A warrior. A human being standing on the edge of one
of life’s most transformative moments, doing the absolute best you can.
And when that baby is placed in your arms, whether it’s one minute or one hour after the birth, the love will rise. You’ve already started loving them way before they even arrived.
You’ve got this, mama. Even when your brain tells you otherwise.
