Most of the women I know have never seen another woman give birth. This had never really seemed strange or unnatural to me, as I have spent most of my years convinced pregnancy is something that should be conducted in a hospital in a relatively unoriginal way. Birthing a child would take no less than 24 hours of agonizing, unbearable pain. A doctor would of course be present. A husband may be nearby for anger release. These excruciating hours seemed a natural precursor to actually attaining the child, much like getting jumped into a gang. You have to pay the price.

Two months ago I was invited to the birth of Rainie’s and James’ baby. This wouldn’t be just any birth, mind you. Think Mother Earth and Father Time. These two organize all-night full-moon rituals in the woods. They are planning to move to South America to live on a sustainable farming cooperative. They only put organic food in their bodies. They planned to give birth to their child in their Bellingham, Wa., living room, in a pool of body-temperature water, surrounded by midwives, breathing coaches and friends.

Not surprisingly, my urban-woman neurosis took hold. I thought their decision to have the baby at home was flippant and risky. If something went wrong they would be miles away from a hospital. I acknowledged that midwives could handle a normal birth, but I was worried they would be useless if there were serious complications. And mainly, I thought Rainie was insane to be so far away from pain relievers. They have no idea what they are getting themselves into. Something could go wrong.

I thought myself a far different woman than Rainie. I thought I could never even think to have my baby at home, away from the comforts of modern medicine. She was at peace with the earth, and I feared its reactions. My uterus did not understand hers.

But I came anyway. They phoned in the middle of the night, and I drove the two hours to the birthing spot. I arrived to find a home well-prepared to house a birth. They had sectioned off a separate birthing room with a curtain adorned with a hand-painted, cross-legged goddess surrounded by purple and blue streaks of light. The room was richly carpeted and decorated with wall hangings and relics. There was a stereo already loaded with their musical needs. Tangerine incense hung in the air. The house was warm.

This was how they wanted it. No hospitals or unfamiliar doctors. James was right next to Rainie the entire time, helping her focus and stay relaxed. They wanted this child to enter into a world similar to the one they planned to raise him in: a home that is understanding, open, grounded and theirs.

We watched and listened for 12 hours, trying not to create unnecessary sound. Some invitees weaved a necklace for the mother to wear during the birth. Others slept on the wooden floor. I sat in the rocking chair outside the goddess-painted curtain, tried to stay calm and waited for a baby.

Rainie did not scream. She did not yell at James in the water next to her and demand justice: “You did this to me, you son of a bitch.” Or “Why don’t you try pushing a watermelon through a hole the size of an orange?”

Rainie moved in and out of the birthing room. Took a shower. Had a short nap. Lay in her bed while the midwife massaged her hips. Music played and was silent again. James left the room for fuel—yogurt, scrambled eggs, a view of the ocean—and returned.

Her eyes were tired but determined. In her last move from bedroom to birthing pool, Rainie noticed me from the edge of the water, watching her like an eagle. She winked. I am going to have this baby now, fellow woman, please don’t be afraid. And I winked back.

She breathed. She moaned. She cried at times and tried to coax the baby out with her words. Please, baby, come out now, baby.

Rainie seemed more like she was in a meditative trance than in immense, screeching pain. She used several breathing and relaxation techniques that she learned in her hypno-birthing classes. The relaxation helped her body remain fear-free and thus tension-free. She was aware of the contractions and was in a fair amount of pain, but she had power over it. She was calm and focused. Her groans at the 10^th hour sounded more like a bear yawning in the morning than the pain of a woman, ready to push, trying to breathe. Breathe, Rainie, breathe.

She was in a lot of pain, no doubt. Things were very intense. But this was not the TV sitcom pain and probably not the pain your mother holds over your head. This, as the new mother told us, is a pain, more a physical state, all women can manage with confidence and control.

My uterus and I were floored. This didn’t look so bad. In fact, it looked down right beautiful.

We are taught to be afraid. “It was the worst pain I ever had.” Or “Adopt, honey, or have a C-section.” Or “Get an epidural. You are insane if you don’t.” I don’t think women who speak these words are lying; I have no doubt they were in extreme pain. But I’m not sure they had to be. And women, I know we don’t need to be afraid.

No one has to get jumped-in. Not everything that is good has to be earned with pain and suffering. Instead of learning to embrace and direct this natural process, women are taught to struggle against it, to numb themselves with medication, to let fear instead of their breath run through their bodies.

They are a smart mother and father. They brought us to their home so that we could give them support and welcome their child with love; but they also invited us so that we could learn, from watching and listening. Learn and do. Don’t be afraid.

Not only hippie New Age women can have painless, welcoming, at-home births. Even us antiperspirant wearing women can do it, too. Sure, Rainie and I are very different women, but we’re not really that far apart. I’ll probably use disposable diapers and feed my children all kinds of processed goodies that would make her cringe. But just like Rainie, I don’t want my child to be born with my pain and fear echoing in his ears. How would he be able to forget the sound of his mother screaming?

James’ hands were the first to touch the new one. And they held each other—baby, mother and father—in awe and with relief. The chorus entered and met the latest addition to the room. Welcome, little one. We are all here to greet you. Welcome to this world.

There is another way. There usually is. Breathe, woman, breathe.