I had a C-section with my son, and I feel cheated.

I know, rationally, that a birth is a birth. And the fact that I have my son is the most important thing. Yet, when I see all these articles and social media posts about how we should be just as proud of a C-section and not be upset about not getting to have the natural birth we had imagined, I disagree.

I’m upset about it. And I think that’s fine. I believe it’s natural and not something we should have to keep quiet about, and I’m sick of being told otherwise.

I understand that people are trying to fight back against the “birth shaming” of people who would take it the other way and say a C-section is the “easy way out” or not as hard as a natural birth. There’s nothing easy about being sliced open — literally all the way to your innards — and then stitched back up and being expected to get up and walk around later that same day. It’s definitely not an easy way out.

But while I appreciate the fact that some people are trying to help me not feel bad for having a C-section, that doesn’t make me feel any better. It’s not that I feel guilt or shame, which seems to be suggested a lot in these articles. I just feel sad on a wholly selfish level that I didn’t get to have the natural birth experience. While I obviously “gave birth” to my son, I also very much feel like I didn’t get to actually give birth to him. This may be a controversial thing to say, and I’m not trying to negate other people’s birth experiences. But personally, I feel I missed out on the birth experience of my son.

I had been looking forward to having a baby for my whole life. I was one of those girls who wanted to be a mother for as long as I can remember. But more, I actually wanted to give birth. I have always thought that giving birth would be the most amazing thing in the world. And even though it would be the hardest, most painful thing I could imagine, I couldn’t wait to do it. It’s one of those experiences you literally cannot fully comprehend until you do it. It felt to me like a huge secret that half the world knows and the other half can’t even begin to.

It’s the ultimate experience — the one thing that would truly tie me together with every other woman in the history of the world. Something every mother who has come before me has gone through. I always thought that one day I would join the club and know what it was all about. For years, I wondered what it would be like. Would I be able to handle it? How would it feel?

I still wonder all those things.

While I now have my son, who is the most amazing thing in my world and obviously the most incredible gift I could ever be given, I am still not a part of the club. I still have the same exact questions, wonders, awe. Now, years later, I still mourn even the things you dread. I never got to know what it was like to endure backbreaking contractions, to practice special breathing while my husband held my hand, to feel my baby’s head start to exit my body, to literally push him into the world. I didn’t get to worry about hemorrhoids or wear ice pads in my underwear for a week afterward. I don’t get to participate in conversations about tearing down there, or how long I was pushing. I still wonder about it all.

I know how lucky I am to have had a fairly healthy pregnancy and to have had the experience of being pregnant for eight months. I know how lucky I am to be a mom. I truly and deeply appreciate that every single day.

But part of me still mourns the birth experience I didn’t get to have. And part of me still feels upset when I hear people say a C-section is just as good. Because it didn’t seem as good to me, and I don’t think I should feel bad for saying that. It still feels like I majorly missed out on one of the only things I had always planned on being a definite “must-do” in my life. And I don’t want to be told I shouldn’t be upset that I didn’t get to truly give birth to my child.