The person who'll be holding your hand
Hey lovely, Romy here. Birth doula, deeply passionate about supporting hospital birth, and mum of three: two in my arms, one in our hearts. I live in Carrum Downs with my husband, our 3 year old son, our baby daughter, and Forest the golden retriever, who I am unashamedly obsessed with.
The coffee is strong and the vibes are high
Trained birth doula · Diploma of Counselling · Supported by a trusted backup doula network · Lived experience of caesarean birth, pregnancy loss, and VBAC.
Off paper: Hair-stroker, cheerleader, vomit-catcher, snack distributor, professional believer in you and your bad ass birthing ability. Born in Holland, raised here since I was five (the Dutch directness survived the move). Devoted reader of fairy smut (IYKYK, and if you know, we're already friends). And I've rewatched Gilmore Girls more times than I care to admit.
On paper, and off it
Where you lead, I will follow…
Years before my own babies, I was the support person at a friend's birth, and I watched things happen to her body that nobody asked her permission for. That stayed with me. So when I fell pregnant with my son, I carried a real fear of birth, and of course I did what we all do when we're spiralling at 2am: I googled until I could google no more.
That's how I learned Doulas existed. Meeting my Doula and connecting with her felt like the exhale I'd been searching for. She had my back. And somewhere between that first connection call and the birth itself, something I didn't expect happened: I stopped being afraid of birth and fell completely in love with it instead. I threw myself into learning everything I could about it, how it works, what my options were, because I wanted to give myself the best chance of a positive experience. (Spoiler: that instinct became my entire job.)
I’ll tell you a secret. I used to be scared of birth.
I spent my twenties wishing I had a calling.
I worked in corporate back then, and girl, it was NOT for me. The politics, the ladder-climbing, the game-playing. I watched people who burned with passion for their work, and wished I felt that too, and was honestly sad that I didn't. It turns out nothing was wrong with me. I was just in the wrong rooms. I've always been a deeply feeling, deeply empathetic person, and the dark, dry sense of humour comes as part of the same package. You'll be getting both. Birth is real life at its closest and most honest, and the moment I found it, the searching stopped.
The universe agreed, rather loudly: my own doula, Brony, turned out to teach at a doula college. She saw it in me before I'd said it out loud, and she pushed me to train. My doula became my teacher, then my mentor, and is now my witchy, gorgeous friend.
My first birth didn't go to plan, but it went on my terms, which matters more.
My son's labour started on its own, on my birthday, no less. I laboured at home calm and unafraid, TENS humming, eating like a queen. At the hospital they wrote me down as "not in labour" while I was contracting long and strong (lol). What followed was three days: a posterior baby who wouldn't descend, a stubborn cervical lip, an epidural which had never been on the cards for me, and finally a caesarean I'd never planned.
People hear that story and wait for me to say the word trauma. I can't. There isn't any. Because at every single fork in that road, the decision was mine. I knew the risks, I knew the benefits, I took the time I needed, and I said yes only when I was ready. I walked (well, post-caesarean hobbled) out of that birth feeling so profoundly proud of myself and what I had done. I was a badass.
That is the whole reason I do this work the way I do it: it was never about how you birth. It's about how you feel while you're doing it. Taking charge of your birth, arming yourself with information and a ride or die support team, is what turns fear into power and confidence.
Between my two earthside babies came Koa, my second son, who we said goodbye to at 17 weeks. His story deserves more than a paragraph, and one day soon it will have its own gentle corner of this website. For now, know this: he is part of why I hold space the way I do, and there's a tree in our yard with his name on it.
And then my daughter, my VBAC. A VBAC asks you to rebuild trust in your body; a VBAC after loss asks you to rebuild it from rubble. I did the work, properly: therapy, honest conversations with my support team about exactly where my head was at, months of movement and preparation, and practice. Breath, vocalising, meditations, affirmations, repeated until they lived in my bones. Because here's a truth I'll tell every client: nothing works in labour that you haven't practised. Birth is not the moment to try something for the first time.
Her labour: Harry Potter on the couch, an obscene amount of snacks, the TENS machine once again the MVP, and a support team who, when the hospital tried to park me in an assessment room mid-transition, advocated me straight into a birth suite. Two hours of pushing later, she was in my arms. I couldn't believe she was here. And also, of course she was. It was always meant to be her
Hospital birth is where you most need someone whose only job is you. Hospitals run on policy and risk management, and women too often leave feeling processed rather than heard. Medical care absolutely has its place (my caesarean and I can vouch), but it should happen with you, not to you. My purpose is to make sure that in a system built around protocols, your birth stays built around you. Your questions asked, your preferences known, your voice the loudest one in your own birth.
And if you're planning a home birth? I'm there for that too, happily.
Where I’m needed most
Every story above turned into something I now hand to my clients.
My fear became my belief that information is the antidote: you will never be left to google alone at 2am. My caesarean became my promise that there is no wrong way to birth here, only your way, chosen with open eyes. Koa became the depth in how I hold space: I am not afraid of your big feelings, any of them. And my VBAC became my preparation philosophy: we practise, we prepare, we build your toolkit until it lives in your bones, because nothing works in labour that you haven't practised.
When we work together, you're the driver. I'm beside you with the map, the snacks, and an unwavering belief in what you're capable of. My job was never to rescue you from birth. It's to prepare you so well, and hold you so steadily, that you walk out of that room knowing it was you who did it.
Running underneath all of this, the thing I'm really known for is deep, hardcore emotional support. It's my love language and my favourite part of this work. Your fears, your tears, your 2am wobbles, your wildest joy: bring me all of it. Nothing you feel will ever be too much for me.
If you've read this far, chances are we'd get along. Come say hi.