Raven had never been afraid of much. At thirty-four, she had survived a decade of underground fighting, a bar fight that left her with a scar splitting her left eyebrow, and the collective judgment of a world that had never known what to do with a six-foot-three, tattooed, pierced butch woman who took up space like she owned it. She had walked into punk houses filled with skinheads, had her ribs broken by a woman twice her size in a Muay Thai ring, had stared down her own reflection after shaving her head and liked what she saw. But walking into Sacred Bloom Prenatal Yoga for the first time had taken more courage than all of it.
Her wife, Lena, had been asking for weeks. “Just try it,” Lena had said, her small hands resting on the growing curve of Raven’s belly. “You need to be around other pregnant people. You’re going to be a mom, babe. You can’t just hole up in the garage with your punching bag and your death metal.”
So Raven went. She went in her baggiest gym shorts, a faded gray hoodie with the sleeves cut off, and a black tank top that had a hole under one arm. Her arms were sleeves of blackwork—thorns, skulls, a dagger wrapped in roses, the names of bands that had broken up before most of the women in this class were born. Her ears were stacked with silver rings, a small hoop in her nostril, a curved barbell through her eyebrow. Her armpits were dark with thick hair she had never once considered shaving. She was a collection of sharp angles and ink, and she felt like a monster in a room full of fairies.
The other women were soft. They wore matching pastel leggings and draped cardigans, their hair in loose braids, their voices gentle. They moved through the poses like water, while Raven’s body felt like a bag of hammers. She grunted through cat-cow, swore under her breath during warrior II, and shot death glares at anyone who looked at her too long. The instructor, a wisp of a woman named Sage, smiled at her every week with such genuine warmth that Raven wanted to crawl out of her own skin. “Welcome, mama,” Sage would say, and Raven would nod once, jaw tight, and take her place at the back of the room where she could lean against the wall and pretend she was somewhere else.
She was thirty-four weeks pregnant, thirty-four years old, and she had spent her entire life being told she was too much. Too loud, too big, too angry, too queer. Now she was about to become a mother, and she was supposed to become soft, to become gentle, to fit into this world of lullabies and baby showers and women who probably flinched when she walked into a room. She didn’t know how.
The class had been going for nearly an hour when Raven first noticed that something was wrong. Or rather, something was different. The studio was warm—it was always warm, some bullshit about “maintaining the uterine environment”—but today the heat felt suffocating, a physical weight pressing down on her chest. She was sweating, her tank top darkening under the arms, her forehead slick, her hands leaving damp prints on her mat. Her breath was coming in ragged gasps, far harder than it should have been during a gentle prenatal flow, and there was a low, grinding ache in her lower back that she had been trying to ignore for the last hour.
“Fucking air conditioning,” she muttered, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. The woman next to her, a tiny brunette with a belly like a basketball, shot her a concerned look. Raven forced what she hoped was a reassuring smile, though it probably looked more like a grimace.
They moved into a supported child’s pose, and Raven folded herself over her knees, her enormous belly pressing into her thighs. The ache in her back deepened, and she felt a wave of nausea roll through her, hot and sudden. She swallowed hard, breathing through her nose, telling herself it was just the heat, just the pressure of the baby, just her body being a traitorous piece of shit as usual.
Then the wave crested, and she felt it: a sharp, internal pop, followed by a gush of warm fluid that flooded her shorts and soaked the mat beneath her.
For a moment, she didn’t move. She knelt there, frozen, her brain refusing to process what had just happened. Then the woman next to her gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
“Oh my God. Her water broke.”
The room erupted. Women were on their feet, hands reaching, voices rising. Sage was there in an instant, her calm facade cracking just enough to show a flash of urgency beneath. “Raven, honey, look at me. Your water has broken. How far along are you?”
“Thirty-four weeks,” Raven managed, her voice strangled. “I’m not supposed to… it’s too early…”
“Babies come when they’re ready,” Sage said, her hand on Raven’s shoulder. “Right now, I need you to breathe. Just breathe. We’re going to take care of you.”
Raven tried to breathe, but another contraction was already building, this one far stronger than the aches she had been dismissing all morning. It wrapped around her lower back and squeezed, a vise of pressure that made her cry out, her hands slamming down on the mat. She was shaking, her entire body trembling with the force of it, and she could feel the eyes of every woman in the room on her.
“Someone call Lena,” Sage said, her voice sharp now. “And call 911. The rest of you, we need to make her comfortable. We’re not moving her until the paramedics arrive.”
“No,” Raven gasped, her head snapping up. “No, I don’t… I can’t have this baby here. I need to go to the hospital.”
“The paramedics are on their way,” Sage said. “But this baby isn’t waiting. I can see the contraction pattern. You’re in active labor. We need to get you ready.”
Another contraction hit, and Raven forgot about the hospital, forgot about Lena, forgot about everything except the raw, primal force tearing through her body. She screamed, a sound that tore from her throat without her permission, and her arms gave out, sending her collapsing onto her side on the soaked mat.
“We need to get her out of these wet clothes,” Sage said, her hands already reaching for the hem of Raven’s tank top. “She’s going to get cold, and she needs to be comfortable.”
“No,” Raven said again, but the word came out weak, desperate. She clutched at her tank top, her fingers wrapping around the fabric, but Sage was gentle and insistent, and the other women were gathering around, their hands warm, their voices soft.
“It’s okay, mama. Let us help you. You’re safe here.”
Raven felt the shirt being lifted, felt the cool air of the studio on her skin, and she wanted to cry. She was exposed, her large chest spilling free, her torpedo belly jutting out, the dark hair under her arms on full display. She tried to cover herself, but her arms were shaking too hard, and then the women were pulling at her shorts, tugging them down her thighs, and she was naked from the waist down, her thick pubic hair visible to everyone, and the shame was a hot, suffocating blanket.
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed, tears cutting through the sweat on her face. “I’m sorry, I’m not… I don’t…”
“Shh,” a woman said, her voice a low murmur. She was older, with silver hair and kind eyes, and she was kneeling beside Raven, a hand on her arm. “You have nothing to apologize for. You’re having a baby. Your baby is coming, and we are here to help you. Let us help you.”
Another contraction seized her, and Raven curled onto her side, her knees drawing up instinctively, her body assuming the side-lying position that felt most natural in that moment. The women moved with her, placing pillows from the prop wall under her head, between her knees, behind her back. Someone draped a light blanket over her chest, covering her breasts but leaving her belly and hips exposed. Someone else was holding her hand, a small, soft hand with perfectly manicured nails, and Raven clung to it like a lifeline.
“The paramedics are seven minutes out,” someone called.
“She’s not going to make it seven minutes,” Sage said, her voice low but urgent. She was positioned behind Raven now, her hands resting on Raven’s hip, feeling the contraction. “This baby is coming. I can see the head. I need you to listen to me, Raven. I need you to breathe with me. Can you do that?”
Raven nodded, her jaw clenched, her teeth grinding. She was shaking uncontrollably, her body slick with sweat, her hair plastered to her face. The next contraction built, and she felt the urge to push, an overwhelming, undeniable pressure that made her want to bear down with everything she had.
“Don’t push,” Sage said, her voice firm. “Not yet. Your body needs to open slowly. If you push too hard, too fast, you’ll tear. I need you to pant. Can you pant for me, Raven? Just little breaths. Like a dog.”
Raven tried. She opened her mouth and panted, short, sharp breaths that did nothing to relieve the pressure. The burning began, a searing ring of fire that made her sob, her hand crushing the fingers of the woman holding it.
“The head is coming,” Sage said. “It’s right there. I can see hair. But there’s something else. I think the baby’s hand is up by its face. That’s going to make this harder. You’re going to feel more stretching. I need you to stay calm. We’re going to do this together.”
A nuchal hand. Of course. Of course her baby, her stubborn, impossible baby, would come into the world with its hand up by its head, making an already brutal process even harder. Raven wanted to laugh, or scream, or both. Instead, she panted, her body trembling, her vision blurring with tears of pain and shame and something else she couldn’t name.
The contraction peaked, and she felt the baby’s head stretch her impossibly wide, the nuchal hand adding extra circumference, extra pressure, extra agony. She let out a high, keening whine, a sound she had never heard herself make before, and she felt her body begin to tear, a sharp, burning rip that made her gasp.
“That’s it,” Sage said. “You’re doing it. The head is almost through. Just a little more. Pant, Raven. Pant.”
She panted. The burning was a constant now, a ring of fire that seemed to consume her entire pelvis. She could feel the baby’s head, could feel the small hand pressed against her perineum, and she wanted to push, wanted to scream, wanted to die. But the women around her were holding her, their hands on her back, her shoulders, her legs, their voices a chorus of encouragement.
“Look at you. Look at what your body can do.”
“She’s almost here. She’s almost here.”
The contraction released, and Raven collapsed, her chest heaving, her body shaking. For a moment, there was peace, a blessed absence of pressure, and she gasped in air like a drowning woman.
“The head is crowning,” Sage said. “I need you to push on the next one. Just a small push. Just enough to get the head out. Can you do that?”
Raven nodded, her face wet with tears and sweat. She was naked, exposed, her hairy armpits and pubic bush on display, her large chest heaving, her torpedo belly contracting with each wave. She was a spectacle, a monster, everything she had always feared she was. But the women around her were not looking at her with disgust. They were looking at her with awe.
The next contraction built, and Raven pushed, a short, controlled push that sent fire through her pelvis. She felt the head emerge, felt the nuchal hand slip free alongside it, and then the pressure was gone, replaced by a sudden, shocking emptiness.
“The head is out,” Sage said, her voice bright with relief. “One more push, Raven. One more push for the shoulders.”
Raven pushed, a final, shuddering effort, and she felt the rest of the baby slide free, a warm, fluid rush that left her gasping. There was a moment of silence, and then a cry, thin and furious, a sound that cut through the haze of pain and shame and made everything else fall away.
Sage lifted the baby, a boy, red-faced and squalling, and placed him on Raven’s chest. He was enormous, his head big and round, his dark hair wet, his tiny fists waving. Raven looked at him, at this small, furious creature, and she began to cry in earnest.
“He’s perfect,” Sage said, her hand on Raven’s shoulder. “You did it. You did it, Raven.”
The women gathered around, their hands reaching out to touch the baby, to touch Raven, their voices a soft murmur of praise and wonder. The older woman with the silver hair was crying, her hand still holding Raven’s. The tiny brunette was grinning, her face wet with tears. Even the woman who had been on the phone with the paramedics was there, her phone forgotten, her eyes bright.
“Look at that head of hair.”
“You were amazing. Absolutely amazing.”
Raven looked down at her son, at the tiny face, the wrinkled forehead, the small mouth working silently. She looked at her own arms, the tattoos, the dark hair under her arms, the broad shoulders and strong hands. She had never felt more like a monster in her life, and yet, for the first time, surrounded by these women who had seen her naked and vulnerable and had not looked away, she felt something she had never felt before.
The paramedics arrived a few minutes later, their stretcher bumping through the door, but Raven waved them off. She was not going anywhere. She was right where she needed to be, her son warm against her chest, the women of Sacred Bloom gathered around her, their hands on her, their voices a lullaby of praise.
Lena burst through the door a moment after the paramedics, her face wild with fear, and stopped short at the sight of her wife, naked and sweating, holding a newborn in the middle of a circle of women. Her face crumpled, and she was across the room in an instant, her arms around Raven, her lips on her forehead.
“You did it,” Lena whispered. “You fucking did it.”
Raven laughed, a broken, tear-soaked sound, and leaned into her wife. “I did it,” she said. “I did it.”
She looked around the room, at the women who had stripped her clothes, who had held her hands, who had watched her scream and push and tear, who had seen every inch of her hairy, tattooed, imperfect body and had not flinched. They were smiling at her, these soft, gentle women in their pastel leggings, and for the first time, Raven did not feel like an intruder.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I’m sorry for… for being such a…”
“Don’t,” Sage said, cutting her off. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You brought a life into this world. You did it with strength and courage. You are a warrior, Raven. And you are one of us now.”
Raven closed her eyes, her son’s weight on her chest, her wife’s arms around her, the women’s voices a warm, steady hum. She was still shaking, still raw, still bleeding and torn and exhausted. But the shame was gone, burned away by the fire of her labor, replaced by something that felt almost like peace.
She opened her eyes and looked at her son, at the tiny face, the dark hair, the small hand that had made her entrance so much harder. “Welcome,” she whispered. “Welcome to the world, little warrior.”
And for the first time, she said the words without irony: “Welcome, mama.”
The women laughed, soft and warm, and the circle closed around them, holding them all in a moment that none of them would ever forget.
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