Enter My Daughter — The Birth That Felt Like a Five-Star Retreat

June 2019 gave me my only daughter —

born in a renowned birth center housed inside the region’s most elite hospital system.

They blended luxury, evidence-based care, and autonomy so flawlessly it felt like the childbirth equivalent of checking into a spa.

She was overdue by two weeks,

labor spanned two days,

pushing lasted twelve hours,

and yet —

it was transcendent.

Quiet.

Held.

Empowered.

She slid into the world in warm water, peacefully asleep and undisturbed,

the culmination of a decade-long arc of learning, reclaiming, and commanding my own body’s narrative.

I Became the Woman Who Negotiated With Institutions and Won

Some people learn to be assertive in career boardrooms.

I learned in labor rooms.

By now, I was:

▫️ a veteran researcher

▫️ a child birth expert

▫️ an emotionally bulletproof mother

▫️ someone who could decode medical language quicker than residents

I realized something profound:

When you combine scientific literacy with unshakeable statistical data,

you become a force that even the hospital staff hesitates to challenge.

Pregnancy #4 — When My Birth Plan Became a Thesis

It’s 2017 and I am no longer playing defense.

I wrote 348-page laminated birth plans signed by me and the doctor.

Categorized. Indexed. Color-coded.

Bindered for each staff member like a conference packet.

I was gestational-diabetic this time (a condition that never left afterward),

(though diet-controlled and unmedicated of my own volition, thank you very much)

but even so — the new hospital treated me with respect.

Let me labor naturally.

Honored every line of my birth plan.

My fourth son arrived full-term, wonderfully overdue, and beautifully ready at over 7 lbs.

It was the most collaborative medical experience of my life.

Marvel Taught Me Coping Skills No Self-Help Book Ever Did

When life overwhelms me, I retreat into storylines where ordinary people become extraordinary despite trauma.

Sometimes, I wish Charles Xavier would roll into my life and tell me my brain is not broken — just differently wired.

A mutation.

An evolution.

A strength.

Storm taught me resilience.

Wolverine taught me endurance.

Rogue taught me emotional boundaries.

Jean taught me that overwhelming power doesn’t make you monstrous — being misunderstood does.

Stories save us in ways therapists never fully can.

On Being the Brown Girl Who Knows Too Much About the X-Men

People underestimate how academically rigorous comic books can be.

X-Men taught me more about sociology, allegory, and political psychology than half the textbooks I skimmed.

The Mutant Registration Act?

A metaphor for surveillance states, racial profiling, and state-sanctioned otherness.

Jean Grey’s Phoenix arc?

A dissertation on power, trauma, rebirth, and the terrifying elasticity of identity.

Magneto?

A case study in extremism born from generational grief.

Sometimes I wonder if I connect with mutants so deeply because I’ve always felt like one —

different, brilliant, misunderstood, and perpetually “too much” for the world around me.

…just not enough to get anywhere…

Gaming Was My First Language

I swear I learned critical thinking from PlayStation.

Jak & Daxter taught me strategy.

Tekken taught me reflexes.

Crash Bandicoot taught me anger management (barely).

And every Super Mario Bro’s loading screen taught me patience. Ohhh soooo much patience.

Gaming isn’t a hobby.

It’s my sanctuary.

The place where my brain makes complete sense.

The world where I wasn’t “weird” or “distracted” — I was capable.

Tell me how I always feel more myself in Donkey Kong Country’s digital universe than in my real one. Dear lord to that!