I gave birth on New Year’s Eve.

Even writing this sentence still feels surreal. Not because it was dramatic or traumatic — but because it was deeply human, intense, raw, beautiful, and grounding in a way only birth can be. This was my second birth, twelve years after the first, and yet it felt both completely new and strangely familiar at the same time.

I was overdue, so labor didn’t begin on its own. On the evening of December 30th, the doctors decided to induce labor using a balloon catheter. I had read so many times that balloon induction is “uncomfortable but not painful,” so I thought I knew what to expect. I didn’t.

For me, the insertion was extremely painful. And I want to say this clearly, because I think women deserve honesty: just because something is described as painless online, it doesn’t mean your body will experience it that way. Pain is not a failure. It’s not weakness. It’s information — and every body responds differently.

After the balloon was placed, contractions started slowly. I could feel my body waking up, preparing, remembering. By midnight, the contractions became more regular. By around 2:30 a.m., they were strong and close enough that we were taken to the delivery room.

Twelve years earlier, during my first birth, I learned something important about myself. What helps me most in labor is not external control, not lists, not plans — but hyperfocus, breathing, and complete cooperation with my body. I remembered that.

So this time, I didn’t prepare a detailed birth plan. I didn’t have a doula. I didn’t bring anything special with me. Not because these things aren’t valuable — but because I knew what I needed. I trusted that once labor truly began, my body would take over, just like it had before.

During the early and active phases of labor, I was alone. At Semmelweis University, partners are allowed to be present, but because of the balloon induction and how the night unfolded, I labored on my own for hours.

And honestly? It felt right.

I turned inward completely. I breathed. I meditated. I focused. I wasn’t fighting the contractions — I was moving with them. Each wave had a purpose, and I reminded myself of that again and again. There was a quiet strength in that space, a deep sense of cooperation between my mind and my body.

When we finally moved into the delivery room, my husband, Misi, joined me. He came in fully present, dressed in his “dad gear,” focused and calm. During pregnancy, I had moments of worry about how he would handle the intensity of birth. Would it overwhelm him? Would it distract me?

At some point, I made a conscious decision: I would trust him.

And he showed up in the most beautiful way possible.

He was grounded, supportive, attentive. He held me when I needed holding, gave me space when I needed silence, and anchored me both physically and emotionally. He didn’t try to fix anything. He was just there — fully, steadily, lovingly.

The pushing phase lasted about forty minutes. It was completely natural, without pain relief or medical intervention. At 4:10 a.m., our son, Dávid, was born.

He arrived big. Really big. 4,500 grams and 60 centimeters — just like his brother.

Twelve years earlier, our first son, Ádi, was born weighing 4,700 grams. His birth was fast, powerful, and uncomplicated too. And just like Dávid, he cried for the first time around 4:15 a.m.

That parallel moved me deeply. Two births, twelve years apart, connected by rhythm, strength, and timing.

Then came the golden hour.

That first hour after birth was one of the most beautiful experiences of my life. There was no rush. No noise. Just the three of us — and unexpectedly large sandwiches. Knowing me well, Misi didn’t bring a “small snack.” I ate like someone who hadn’t eaten in years, completely present in my body, in that moment.

Watching him hold our baby filled me with a profound sense of peace. Everything slowed down. I felt safe. Whole. Calm.

We gave birth in the SOTE Premium system, with our chosen doctor, Dr. Gábor Vleskó, and a truly wonderful midwife. Their presence mattered more than I can fully put into words. I felt emotionally safe, respected, and supported — and that kind of safety changes everything about how birth is experienced.

After the golden hour, my husband went home, and my baby and I spent the next 48 hours together in a private, single room.

Those two days were some of the most intimate of my life.

There was no pressure. No expectations. Just learning each other, resting, feeding, existing together in a small, protected bubble. Time felt different there. Slower. Softer.

Giving birth again after twelve years was fascinating. My body was different. I was different. My awareness, my emotional depth, my trust in myself had grown — and yet, the essence of birth felt the same. The intensity. The surrender. The power.

Soon, I’ll share more about the postpartum days — about what it’s like to experience them again after such a long time. It’s a strange and beautiful mix of rediscovery and deep familiarity.

If birth stories aren’t your thing, feel free to scroll past — I’ll always mark these posts clearly. And if you’re here, reading this, thank you for holding space for my story.

For those who prefer professional content about fitness and self-awareness, you can find me at Fitness & Balance by Blanka.

And for every woman reading this: however your birth unfolds, it is valid. Your experience matters. Your body knows more than you think.

I also noticed how different I was this time — not just physically, but emotionally. Twelve years ago, I was younger, more tense, more eager to do things "right." This time, I wasn’t trying to perform birth. I wasn’t trying to meet expectations, not even my own. I was simply allowing it to happen through me.

There was a deep sense of surrender, but not the kind that feels like giving up. It was an active surrender — choosing again and again to soften instead of resist, to breathe instead of panic, to trust instead of control. I could feel how much my nervous system mattered. When I stayed calm, my body worked more efficiently. When fear tried to creep in, I acknowledged it and let it pass.

I remember moments during labor when time seemed to stretch and blur. Minutes felt like hours, and then suddenly hours collapsed into moments. My entire world narrowed down to breath, sensation, presence. Nothing else existed — not the calendar, not the fact that it was New Year’s Eve, not the outside world celebrating while I was deep inside my own transformation.

Birth strips life down to its essentials.

Between contractions, there were pockets of stillness where I felt almost euphoric. A quiet pride washed over me — not loud, not dramatic, just a calm knowing: I am doing this. My body is doing this. We are working together.

When Dávid was finally placed on my chest, the weight of him grounded me instantly. Warm, real, alive. His skin against mine pulled me fully into the present moment. All the intensity of the previous hours dissolved into something softer, almost sacred.

I became acutely aware of how powerful that first contact is — skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat. It wasn’t just emotional; it was physical, hormonal, primal. I could feel my body responding, adjusting, opening in a completely new way, even after everything it had just gone through.

Those first moments weren’t about photos or announcements or messages to the outside world. They were quiet. Private. Ours.

Later, in the stillness of the hospital room during the night, I lay awake watching my son sleep. The room was dim, the world outside silent. I listened to his breathing and felt my own body slowly coming back to itself. There was soreness, yes, but also an incredible sense of strength.

I had carried life. I had given birth. Again.

Being alone with him during those 48 hours felt like a gift. No rushing visitors, no expectations to entertain or explain. Just the two of us learning each other. I learned the sound of his breath, the way his hands curled, the subtle cues of hunger and comfort. He learned my smell, my voice, my warmth.

Those days reminded me how much we underestimate the power of slowness — especially after birth. Recovery isn’t just physical healing; it’s emotional integration. It’s letting the experience land, letting the body and mind catch up with what just happened.

I also found myself reflecting on how birth changes a woman — not only in the moment, but long after. It reshapes your relationship with pain, with trust, with your own limits. It leaves an imprint that stays with you, whether the experience was easy or difficult.

For me, this birth reinforced something I deeply believe: women are not broken, and birth is not something that needs to be fixed by default. Support matters. Safety matters. But so does respecting the innate intelligence of the body.

This doesn’t mean birth has to look a certain way. Induction, pain relief, medical intervention — these are not failures. They are tools. What matters is that a woman feels informed, supported, and respected in her choices.

As I slowly stepped into the postpartum days, I felt a quiet confidence growing inside me. Not the loud, performative kind, but a steady inner grounding. I had done this before, yet I was doing it again for the first time — as the woman I am now.

There is something profoundly humbling about realizing that even after twelve years, birth can still surprise you. It can still teach you. It can still crack you open in unexpected ways.

This experience didn’t make me feel invincible. It made me feel deeply human.

And that, perhaps, is the greatest gift birth can offer.

If there is one thing I hope another woman takes from this story, it is this: you don’t need to become someone else to give birth. You don’t need to be braver, tougher, quieter, or stronger than you already are.

You are enough — exactly as you are — in your body, in your fear, in your power, in your softness.

Birth will meet you there.