Birth and The Raw Truth of Surrender

I have birthed ten children. My journey has taken me from a delivery room in Surabaya, through the busy hospitals of Riyadh, into the sacred quiet of my own bathtub at home in Riyadh, and finally to a hospital room in Sharjah. I have been the woman handled like a procedure on a hospital bed, and I have been the woman surrendering to the water in her own home—bringing life into the world on her own terms.

If I could sit you down in my home today, I wouldn’t teach you how to prepare a “birth plan.” I would give you the truth about what it actually means to surrender your birth to Allah, and why you must never try—as best as you can—to do it alone. Learn from me so you can be your own Lioness.

1. You Are the Boss (Even when they make you feel small)

In many hospitals—whether in Indonesia or here in the UAE—birth is treated like a system: efficient, timed, and controlled. Somewhere in that system, they often forget that you are not just a body; you are a woman with a soul.

My Truth: After one of my births, a doctor began manually “cleaning” my uterus. She didn’t ask; she just started. The pain was excruciating. I told her to stop, and she ignored me—until my husband stepped in and made her stop. Her superior later admitted there was no medical reason for it; my placenta was intact and I wasn’t bleeding more than normal. She violated my body simply because she didn’t view me as a person with a voice.

Learn from me: Your body is an amanah, and you are not there to be managed. You have the right to say no, to ask questions, and to stop what is being done to you. If you cannot speak in that moment, your husband or partner must be your shield. You are the Queen of that room.

2. Stop Trying to Be a Hero (It’s a trap that leaves you lonely)

There is a version of strength that looks good from the outside: quiet, capable, and low-maintenance. But in birth, that version of strength can betray you.

My Truth: By my tenth baby, I thought I understood everything. We had just moved from Riyadh to Sharjah, I had nine children at home, and I didn’t want to add more to anyone’s plate. I stayed quiet. I didn’t act vulnerable. I didn’t vocalize my expectations. Because I didn’t ask for support, I didn’t get it. I found myself in that Sharjah hospital room, lonely and lost. It was a haunting birth memory that still stings during sensitive times sometimes. I have made my peace, I have forgave, but the scar remains.

Learn from me: Do not hide your needs to “save” others from stress. Birth is the most vulnerable time of your life. Asking for support is not a luxury; it is a necessity for your soul’s healing. You cannot carry the world and the baby at the same time.

3. Build a Village, Not a Nursery (Things cannot hold your hand)

We spend so much time preparing “things”—the perfect pillows, the fairy lights, the nipple balms. Those have their place, but things cannot cook you a meal or hold your hand when you cry.

My Truth: I’ve had the “stuff,” and I’ve had the “loneliness.” I realized that a nice birth ball doesn’t compare to a sister who knows exactly how you feel. In reality, your village isn’t always at your doorstep; you have to call them in.

Learn from me: Instead of a shopping list, build a Support Circle. Organize a food train. Ask for cleaning help. Invite the friends who love you enough to see you at your absolute worst—in your pajamas, with messy unwashed hair and milk stains—and just be there. Real strength is knowing when to let others carry the weight for you.

4. Stay Home as Long as Possible (The hospital clock is not your friend)

The second you walk through those hospital doors, the clock starts ticking on their schedule, not yours.

My Truth: I’ve birthed in the bright, cold lights of delivery wards, but I’ve also birthed in the quiet, warm water of my own bathtub at home. The air is different. At home, I wasn’t a “patient” waiting for instructions; I was a woman in her own sanctuary. In the hospital, you are being watched; in your home, you are being held.

Learn from me: If you and your baby are healthy, stay in your own space as long as you possibly can. Your body doesn’t need an audience to open up; it needs to feel hidden and safe. Spend those first heavy hours in your own pajamas, in your own light, trusting the rhythm Allah gave you before you let a stranger with a clipboard try to time it.

5. Grit Your Teeth (Surrender isn’t always quiet)

There is a point where the “beauty” vanishes and the raw work begins. You don’t need a poem in that moment; you need an anchor.

My Truth: There is a moment in every labor where I am just done. I’m tired, I’m sweating, and I want it to be over. In those moments, I don’t focus on being “Zen.” I focus on the work. I vocalize. I grunt. I let the sounds out that my body needs to make.

Learn from me: Your fuel in that moment is Istighfar. Repeat “Astaghfirullah wa atubu ilayk” a thousand times if you have to. Don’t worry about being “polite” or quiet for the staff. It is a fierce, primal surrender to the One who created you. Grit your teeth and decide that this baby is coming out now. Surrender isn’t always soft; sometimes it’s a fierce determination to finish the task Allah gave you.

What I Want You to Carry With You

Sister, your birth plan isn’t a piece of paper; it’s your Tawakkul. But Tawakkul doesn’t mean suffering in silence or pretending you don’t need a hand to hold. Stand up for your dignity, stay home until you can’t, and never apologize for needing to be supported.

You go into that room as a girl, but you come out as a lioness. But even a lioness needs her pride. You were built for this, and Allah is with those who seek His help—and the help of their village.

I’ve shared my heart and my journey with you because I don’t want you to feel as alone as I once did. If you feel comfortable, I would love to hear from you: Which of these five truths do you need to hold onto the most today?