My Birth, My Way

By Hannah Kelesis

In 2024, my very close friends Chris and Hannah began their pregnancy journey. By that time, I had studied enough to recognise how the medical system—predatory in design—disguises coercion as care, particularly for pregnant women. Knowing its relentless push for compliance, I referred them to Jennifer Margulis’s The Business of Baby (also published as Your Baby, Your Way), a book that had recently shaped my own understanding during an interview with its wonderful author (Interview with Jennifer Margulis). The book armed Hannah with the knowledge to question routine interventions, from the Non-Invasive Prenatal Test (NIPT) to preeclampsia screenings, revealing a clinical machine that prioritizes protocol over individual need (Cesarean C-Section). Each step of her journey exposed the system’s hunger for control: nurses pressed for vaccines like whooping cough with rehearsed urgency, while doctors dismissed her refusals as defiance. “We’ve done our research,” Hannah told a skeptical GP, her resolve unshaken. Her story, which I share with admiration, underscores a truth I’ve long held: the system, Cartel Medicine, preferentially preys on women, especially pregnant women, exploiting their vulnerability unless fortified by informed resistance.

Hannah’s triumph—a natural, intervention-free birth at The Royal Women’s Hospital—stands as a beacon for expectant mothers, natural birth advocates, and skeptics of medical overreach, proving that knowledge can dismantle systemic predation. Guided by Margulis’s insights, she embraced delayed cord clamping to optimize her daughter’s health (Delayed Cord Clamping) and approached ultrasounds cautiously, wary of their unstudied long-term effects (Ultrasound). She declined the Vitamin K injection, the GBS swab, and the Newborn Blood Screening, each refusal a deliberate act of agency against a one-size-fits-all paradigm. The pediatrician’s claim that she was “endangering” her child rang hollow—she hadn’t endangered anyone; she had empowered herself. Her journey, sparked by the Margulis’s book, is a testament to the clarity that comes from understanding the system’s hunger and tactics. It’s a call to others to arm themselves with knowledge, question relentlessly, and reclaim their autonomy in a system that demands submission over sovereignty.

With thanks to Hannah Kelesis.

My Birth, My Way

By Hannah Kelesis

It all started when I began feeling unusually light-headed for a few days. Every time I sat up or got out of bed, the dizzy spells would hit. Chris suggested I might be low in iron and encouraged me to get a blood test. I went to see my GP, got a referral, and had the test done.

The next day, while I was out at the shopping centre, my phone rang. It was my GP with the results—not what I expected. “You're pregnant,” she said. My heart skipped a beat. I stood there in shock, and then a wave of excitement washed over me. I called Chris straight away to share the news: “We’re expecting.” His reaction matched mine—pure joy.

Soon after, I went to see a gynaecologist as advised by my GP. Chris came with me to the appointment, and it was there that we saw our baby’s heartbeat for the first time. Just six weeks along and already stealing our hearts. They gave us a printed ultrasound photo—it didn’t look like much, just a little jellybean—but to us, it was everything.

In the gynaecologist's office, we were given a list of recommended obstetricians and some routine paperwork. Then came the mention of a screening test—the Non-Invasive Prenatal Test (NIPT)—to assess the risk of chromosomal conditions like Down syndrome. Although she assured us everything looked fine, the referral felt heavy. I tucked the form into my handbag and glanced at Chris. We both silently wondered: why offer a test if everything looked normal?

That evening, joy began to mix with worry. Instead of feeling like we were on cloud nine, a shadow of doubt crept in. I couldn’t help but wonder—did the doctor see something she wasn’t saying? There was no history of chromosomal conditions in either of our families. Still, fear had a way of whispering louder than facts.

We shared our news with a dear friend, who was over the moon for us. He also gifted me a book—The Business of Baby by Jennifer Margulis—which quickly became my go-to guide for navigating pregnancy on my own terms. It had everything: vaccinations, scans, ultrasounds, tests like the NIPT, and everything in between. I loved that it didn’t just list what was done during pregnancy—it explained how each procedure was performed, why it was offered, and whether it was truly necessary. I started calling it my "baby bible." With that book in hand, I felt like I had my armour—always informed, always prepared.

I reviewed the list of obstetricians, researching locations, reading reviews—doing what most first-time mothers probably do. It all felt so clinical. The idea of pregnancy being a string of appointments, scans, and payments felt foreign to me. I had always envisioned a natural, even home-based birth. But still, I booked in to see a well-known OB nearby, thinking it was just what you do.

When the paperwork arrived for that first OB appointment, the weight of it all set in: dozens of appointments, multiple ultrasounds, nurses, and a hefty upfront payment by week 20. It felt impersonal and overwhelming. After long conversations with Chris, we decided to cancel the appointment and look for a different path—one that aligned with what we truly wanted.

With the OB appointment behind us and our desire for a more natural approach becoming clearer, we focused on navigating the early weeks of pregnancy with care and curiosity. At around 13 weeks, we went in for the 12-week anatomy scan. Thankfully, everything looked perfect—our baby was healthy, and so was my placenta. We were reassured by the scan.

During the scan, the nurse asked if I’d completed the NIPT. I told her we had decided to decline it. She looked surprised and asked why. I explained that after doing our own research, Chris and I felt strongly that it wasn’t something we wanted. She didn’t say much, just nodded and noted it on my file. I felt firm in my decision, even though the atmosphere always seemed to shift whenever I mentioned declining a test. It was subtle, but it was there.

Before we left, we were told to book our 20-week scan and were given a referral for another blood test. I asked what it was for, and the receptionist casually said, “Preeclampsia screening. You should do it today.” I’d never heard of it before. We left the ultrasound clinic and sat in the car, going through my baby bible what preeclampsia was. It’s high blood pressure during pregnancy, and usually doesn’t develop until after 20 weeks—so why were they testing for something I might not even get?

We decided not to go ahead with the blood test. Once home, I threw the referral away. The next day, the ultrasound clinic called to ask about the test. I told them I hadn’t done it and to please mark it as declined on my file. They didn’t push—just confirmed and hung up.

I immersed myself in books, podcasts, and interviews with birth educators. I was gathering information as quickly as I could. The more I learned, the more I questioned the medical system’s one-size-fits-all approach to pregnancy and birth. I began leaning even more strongly toward a physiological birth without unnecessary interventions—something I knew was unlikely with an OB.

We discovered that The Royal Women’s Hospital offered tours of their birthing suites, and I immediately booked one. Chris and I joined a small group and were guided by a warm and kind midwife. The birthing rooms were everything I had hoped for—dim lighting, deep baths for water births, and a calm environment that felt far more like home than hospital. I remember whispering to Chris as we walked out, “This is it. I’m happy.”

The next day, I booked my first midwife appointment at the hospital. She was lovely and gentle. We went through my medical history, listened to the baby’s heartbeat with a Doppler, and talked through care options. She asked if I had done the NIPT, and I said no. Again, no pressure—just a note on my yellow card. That card became my constant companion.

I gave her the results of the original blood test I had done when I first found out I was pregnant. “Your iron levels are actually quite high,” she said, “but it’s okay. The baby will draw from your iron stores and things will settle.” She was reassuring and kind.

Unfortunately, the Midwifery Group Program was already full, so I was placed into a shared care model—meaning half my appointments would be with a midwife and half with a GP. I wasn’t thrilled about it. They gave me a pamphlet outlining when to see which provider and sent me on my way.

Before I knew it, we were approaching the halfway point—our 20-week anatomy scan. I had already booked the appointment and was trying my best to stay calm despite the growing list of things expected of me. I couldn’t help but think about the articles I had read—especially from The Business of Baby—that warned about overuse of ultrasounds and the long-term effects on developing babies. I was quietly counting down the minutes, hoping the scan would be quick and reassuring.

And it was. In total, the scan took no more than four minutes. Everything looked perfect. The sonographer asked if I had done the NIPT test, and I told her no. She raised her eyebrows slightly and asked why. I explained again that it was a personal decision based on thorough research. She nodded and said nothing more. She asked where to send the results—I told her I was seeing a midwife at The Royal Women’s Hospital.

As I paid at the front desk, the receptionist asked again if I had completed the preeclampsia screening. Once more, I said I had declined. I gave them my email so they could also send the scan results directly to me.

Soon it was time for my first GP appointment as part of the shared care program. I chose a GP who worked in partnership with the Royal Women’s Hospital and made an appointment. Chris came with me, not just for support, but because we were already beginning to feel how important it was to hold firm in our choices.

The GP seemed kind at first. She went through the standard health questions, took a look at my scan results, and used the Doppler to listen to the baby’s heartbeat—strong and steady. Then came the topic I was dreading: vaccines.

She said that during this stage of pregnancy, it’s recommended to get the whooping cough (pertussis) vaccine. She explained that the whooping cough vaccine is usually recommended from 30 weeks of pregnancy, but that it’s completely safe to give it earlier—and that she could administer it then and there if I wanted. I declined and told her I had done extensive research and didn’t feel comfortable receiving it. She looked surprised and asked why—was I worried for myself or for the baby? “Both,” I answered. She then mentioned that research had been done at Westmead Hospital on the safety and benefits of vaccinations during pregnancy, and that she could provide me with the results of that research along with additional pamphlets from them. I thanked her but declined again, explaining that I had already made my decision after looking into it thoroughly. She offered more reading material regardless, but I politely declined those as well.

Chris was beside me, calmly but firmly backing our decision. When the GP turned to him and said that everyone around the baby should be vaccinated for protection, he let out a small laugh and replied, “I won’t be getting it either.” She was visibly displeased. Then she asked whether we planned to vaccinate our child. Before I could answer, Chris stepped in and said, “We’re still looking into what we will and won’t choose to give our child.” I knew exactly what he meant. He was trying to end the conversation without triggering further lectures. It worked—for the moment.

Before we left, she brought up the flu vaccine and how it was important for “immunity.” I declined again. The appointment ended with a referral for more blood work, and we walked out feeling drained. I turned to Chris and said, “If this is what shared care is going to be like, I don’t want to do it.” He agreed.

A few weeks later, when I hit the 30-week mark, I made one last GP appointment—more out of obligation than anything. Chris insisted on coming with me again. She asked how I was feeling, and I said I was doing well, aside from occasional lightning pains in my pelvis. She reassured me that it was normal and said I could take paracetamol for the discomfort—though I already knew I wasn’t going to take it, thanks to my baby bible. She once again asked if I wanted the flu vaccine, and once again, I declined. Following that, I was offered the DTaP vaccine—yes, the wonderful diphtheria, tetanus, and whooping cough all conveniently bundled into one dose! I politely declined that as well.

That was the final straw for me. As we walked to the car, I told Chris I was done. I no longer wanted to see the GP. He looked at me and said, “That’s perfectly fine with me.”

A few weeks later, I returned to the hospital for my midwife appointment. I met Lisa, and from the moment I sat down, I knew I was in the right place. She reviewed my yellow card and saw I had declined both the whooping cough and flu vaccines. She simply nodded and moved on. No judgment. No pressure. It was the breath of fresh air I needed.

I gave her my latest blood test results, and she said everything looked great. My iron levels had come down to normal, and the baby’s heartbeat was strong. She asked if I would like to continue shared care or have the rest of my care with her. Without hesitation, I said I’d love to continue with her.

In our next appointment, Lisa brought up the GBS swab. I had already learned about it—how it tested for a type of bacteria that could affect the baby during birth, but also how the risk was extremely low and that even if you tested positive, the result could change by the time labour began. I also knew that if you did test positive, they would automatically place you on intravenous antibiotics during labour to prevent any transfer to the baby. That meant the very first thing my baby would receive upon entering the world would be antibiotics—rather than the natural biome from a vaginal birth that helps establish a baby’s initial gut microbiome. I asked if I could decline the test, and she said yes, with no issue at all. She wrote it down on my chart and moved on.

We discussed the final weeks of pregnancy, and she reassured me that no one would push for interventions unless I went well beyond my due date—around 42 weeks. I told her I wanted a natural birth with no interventions, including no epidural. She smiled and said that was completely fine, and that the midwives here were all for physiological births and would support me in achieving that. I handed her my birth plan, which outlined everything: no syntocinon for the placenta, no internal monitoring, no routine vaccines, and a water birth if possible. She acknowledged everything with understanding and said I’d just need to discuss the syntocinon with the midwives on duty when I was admitted.

We also asked if we could read through the hospital admittance forms in advance. Lisa said to check at the front desk. We did—but they refused. Hospital policy, apparently. Only when admitted could we see the paperwork. Chris pushed gently, asking why we couldn’t simply review what we’d be signing, but they held their ground. We walked out frustrated.

In my final appointment with Lisa, she asked how I was feeling. I told her the lightning pains were becoming more frequent and sharper. She gently felt my belly and said the baby was in a great position but wanted to do a quick ultrasound to confirm. True to her word, she had the probe on my belly for no more than ten seconds—just enough to see that our baby was deeply engaged and perfectly positioned for birth.

Just five days after my final appointment with Lisa, I went into labour.

That morning, both Chris and I made multiple phone calls to The Royal Women’s Hospital. I was having contractions, but they weren’t following a perfect pattern. Some were close together, others were spaced out. Each time we called, the nurses asked the same question: “How far apart are your contractions?” And each time, we got the same response “Don’t come in until they’re 2 to 3 minutes apart, consistently, for at least an hour.”

So, we stayed home, as instructed. But my contractions were getting stronger—more intense. It wasn’t until I felt my body begin to push on its own that we knew it was time. I had read about this—it was the second stage of labour, the bearing down. When your body knows it’s fully dilated and instinctively begins to push. There’s no stopping it—you can only ride the wave. That’s exactly what I was doing.

By the time we arrived at the hospital, they quickly confirmed I was fully dilated and rushed me into one of the birthing suites. It just goes to show—once again—how the one-size-fits-all approach doesn’t fit at all.

I continued to labour, but time felt like it was speeding up and standing still all at once. At some point, a doctor came into the room. She told me I had been pushing for too long. If the baby didn’t come with the next push, they would need to intervene. First, they mentioned an episiotomy. Then, the tone shifted. They said the baby was under stress and that I would need to be taken into surgery.

Chris didn’t hesitate. “No,” he said firmly. “That’s not going to happen.”

I was exhausted. Every part of me was trembling, physically and emotionally worn. But Chris gave me a pep talk—his words grounding me when I felt like I had nothing left. I reached down into the last reserves of strength I had and gave one final, determined push.

And with that, our daughter was born.

She entered the world weighing a healthy 3.5kg and was placed immediately on my chest. That moment was everything. Chris was right there beside me—his presence steady and strong—as we met our little girl for the first time. The midwives were respectful and gentle.

A doctor looked to Chris and asked if he would like to cut the cord. She already had the clamp in hand. Chris quickly stepped in and said, “I will be cutting it—but only when it’s white and the blood has finished flowing into the baby.” The doctor let out a small huff and walked off. The midwives, however, turned to Chris and quietly said, “Good call.”

We waited for the cord to go pale before he cut it—just as we had planned.

I also birthed the placenta naturally—no syntocinon shot required. It was a moment of relief and pride. Everything we had hoped for, everything I had prepared for—had unfolded just as we envisioned. My body had done what it was designed to do, and I felt so empowered and at peace.

After a short time in the birth suite, we were transferred to the maternity ward. Chris stepped out briefly to get us something to eat while I rested with our baby girl. A midwife came in to weigh and measure her and brought a tray with two syringes. She asked for my consent to administer the Hepatitis B vaccine. I declined. She then held up the second and said, “This is the Vitamin K injection.” Again, I declined.

She paused and said, “This one is really important. It helps with blood clotting.” I thanked her and explained that we had done our research and would be declining. She didn’t argue further—just placed the syringes back on the tray and left.

Later that day, we were moved to a private room where I stayed the night. I could have gone home that evening, but I chose to rest and recover just a little longer. Other than the occasional nurse checking in, it was a quiet and peaceful night.

The next morning, a nurse came in and informed me that a paediatrician would be visiting to complete a newborn assessment and clear us for discharge. As the hours passed, I kept being told, “They’re on their way.” Eventually, I asked if we could push the appointment to a little later in the afternoon so Chris could be there too—he was caught up and couldn’t arrive until 4pm.

The nurse checked and came back saying the paediatrician would be gone by then. If I didn’t see her soon, I’d need to stay another night. At 1:30pm, the nurse returned and said, “You’ll have to go to her office. She won’t be coming here.” I was exhausted and a little sore, but I gathered my things, placed my daughter in the bassinet, and walked down the hospital corridors to her office.

I arrived at the paediatrician’s office still in a daze—less than two days postpartum and already having to stand my ground again. She welcomed me in and asked whether I wanted to start with the newborn eye test or the Vitamin K discussion. When I said we could start with the eye test, she responded, “I’d rather begin with the Vitamin K.” It was subtle, but the tone was clear—this was her agenda, not mine.

She began by stating that I hadn’t given my daughter the Vitamin K shot. I confirmed that was correct. “You’re endangering your child,” she said. “If she gets a cut, her blood won’t clot properly.”

I explained calmly that both my husband and I had done extensive research and felt confident in our decision not to administer the injection. She muttered “yes it is” under her breath when I said we didn’t believe it was necessary. Then she asked what research we had relied on, trying to corner me into a justification. “Multiple sources,” I said. “We’ve made an informed choice, and our answer is no.”

She then brought up the study that had once linked Vitamin K to childhood cancer, quickly adding that it had been debunked. I told her our decision wasn’t based on that, and again, I said no.

After some more pushing, she finally said I would need to sign a waiver stating that the hospital and its staff were not liable for any outcomes related to our decision. “That’s completely fine,” I replied. I signed the paperwork and prepared for the next round: the eye test.

By now, my daughter was crying—a full, unsettled wail. The paediatrician suggested giving her liquid sugar to calm her down. “I do not give my consent,” I said firmly. She gave me a look but moved on. I held my daughter as the test was performed. Once it was done, I was finally given my signed form and cleared for discharge.

I made my way back to the room, handed the form to the midwife, and was told we could leave by 4pm. Chris arrived right on time, and we gathered our things. We were handed a final letter for the front desk, and after a short wait, we were given my hospital file and discharged.

We left the hospital together—me, Chris, and our daughter. I’ve never been so happy to walk out of a building.

The next day, I received a call from the midwifery group. A midwife would be coming to visit us at home for three days to check on me and the baby. We arranged a time, and she arrived as planned.

The visit was brief, mostly running through a checklist—feeding, nappy output, and general wellbeing. She looked over at our daughter and casually remarked, “She looks jaundiced.” Chris replied, “She doesn’t look jaundiced to us.” The midwife responded, “Well, she is. It’s because she didn’t get the Vitamin K shot.” She performed a quick skin reading and said it was on the low end of the scale, not a concern but to keep an eye on it. But we weren’t concerned at all.

She did a check on me as well and said everything looked good—I was healing well. Before she left, she handed us a small stack of pamphlets. Most were about the newborn vaccination schedule, and one was about the Newborn Blood Screening (NBS) test.

When she returned the next day, she came carrying a small esky and said, “Let’s start with the blood test.” Chris immediately spoke up and said we were declining the NBS. She looked surprised. “I’ve never had anyone decline before,” she said. Chris replied, “That’s probably because they didn’t read the pamphlet.”

He then asked for the appropriate decline forms. She looked confused and said, “What forms?” Chris gently replied, “The ones you’re meant to have us sign if we decline. It’s in the pamphlet.” She said she would check when she returned to the hospital.

She noted in our daughter’s file that we declined the test and added that we should inform our GP. Chris and I looked at each other—what did that have to do with our GP? But we let it go.

The final visit came the next day. She arrived a bit later than usual, and the first thing she said was, “Your husband was right—there are forms.” Chris smiled and said, “Of course there are. It was written in the pamphlet.” We signed them, and she did her last checks.

Before leaving, she wished us well and said if we ever needed support, we could call the Women’s Hospital. Then she left—and just like that, we were on our own.

My entire experience of pregnancy, birth, and the early days of motherhood was exactly what I had hoped for—because I took the time to educate myself, listen to my instincts, and hold my ground.

I saw firsthand how vulnerable expecting mothers are within the medical system—how hard doctors, hospitals, and healthcare providers can push their agenda, often under the guise of care. But I also knew that I had a voice, and I used it. There were moments of doubt, discomfort, and confrontation—but there were also moments of strength, trust, and incredible clarity. I’m so grateful for the support of my husband, who stood by me at every step. Our daughter is healthy and thriving, and that is all I could ever ask for.

I appreciate you being here.

If you've found the content interesting, useful and maybe even helpful, please consider supporting it through a small paid subscription. While 99% of everything here is free, your paid subscription is important as it helps in covering some of the operational costs and supports the continuation of this independent research and journalism work. It also helps keep it free for those that cannot afford to pay.

Please make full use of the Free Libraries.

Unbekoming Interview Library: Great interviews across a spectrum of important topics.

Unbekoming Book Summary Library: Concise summaries of important books.

Stories

I'm always in search of good stories, people with valuable expertise and helpful books. Please don't hesitate to get in touch at unbekoming@outlook.com

Baseline Human Health

Watch and share this profound 21-minute video to understand and appreciate what health looks like without vaccination.