There I was, 10 centimeters dilated, one leg in my husband’s hands, the other in my nurse’s, gripping the hospital bed rails for dear life. I was locked in on my OB-GYN, who was calmly coaching me through each contraction. “You have to get above the baby with your body,” she said, like I was doing Olympic gymnastics and not, you know, pushing out a human. “Push down and out; he’s gotta get past your pelvis bone.” With everything swirling in my head, I closed my eyes, letting each wave of contractions hit me like an oncoming tide, then sprinting through each push.