TikTok’s birthing revolution

A few weeks ago, at a routine 28-week appointment in the midwife clinic at the public hospital where I work, I asked a first-time mum what she wanted to know about the upcoming labour and birth of her baby boy.

I’ve been a midwife for five years, and like most, I was ready to make time for a good chat about childbirth education. Public hospital antenatal clinics are busy places and individualised care is rare, so I try to start these conversations early to understand each woman’s wishes, preferences and values, and how these might shape the experience they want.

I’ve always felt that being a midwife means being a guide through the ups and downs of pregnancy, labour and postpartum. A shoulder to lean on, a hand to squeeze. I often want to stay with women and their families long after my paid shift ends. So I was surprised, and slightly tickled, when this first-time mum replied, “I’m good, I don’t have any questions. I got everything I need to know off TikTok.”

Confused, I asked, “Are you sure? There’s nothing else you want to discuss today?” She shook her head firmly. Nope. She had nothing else to ask.

The interaction stayed with me. Throughout pregnancy, women in the public system are seen by qualified and knowledgeable midwives for free, and yet some are still searching for more.

In hindsight, I wish I’d asked what she had seen on TikTok. I’m intrigued by how women interact with knowledge about birth. I’m fascinated by how people want to tell their stories, whether as warnings or photo montages, because birth is deeply individual. Sharing becomes a way to connect, to be seen, to feel validated.

Outside the hospital, I teach childbirth education classes in Melbourne to small groups of three or four couples. The space is small and cosy, and we spend twelve hours over four sessions discussing prenatal and postnatal care, and how to advocate for the kind of birth you want. It’s a great gig because it feels fulfilling and whole.

The couples who attend are clear on what experience they want. They have the means to invest in both the emotional and physical preparation for birth and parenthood. For them, seeking knowledge from an expert is normal. These couples, as delightful as they are, are mostly privileged professionals who can afford to plan ahead.

That stands in contrast to the public hospital system, where I work primarily.

In the most multicultural suburb in Melbourne, we see everyone, wealthy families, people experiencing poverty, refugees, and those waiting on visas.

Many women come to the clinic by bus or on foot, with children in tow, and wait over an hour to be seen. Many don’t speak English. Some are illiterate in their mother tongues. I regularly use interpreters for languages I had barely heard of before this job.

For most women accessing our clinic, pregnancy and birth are seen as part of life that you don’t question too much. You get what you get.

I imagine this stems from growing up in hardship or war.

Many of these women have birthed multiple children overseas, often at home, without midwifery care. Unlike the private class attendees, they often don’t remember their own birthdays or their babies’ birth weights, because those details didn’t matter in the day-to-day task of surviving. Many of the women I see say they feel well, when really they are navigating what it means to be a new migrant in Australia, with all the pressures of motherhood, language barriers, and an unfamiliar system. I adore these women because they come with a deep sense of trust. Still, with my long list of patients, consultations are often short.

I measure bellies, check blood pressure, review test results and ultrasounds. But we rarely talk about their lives or their desires, which is the very heart of what midwifery care is meant to be. It can feel unfulfilling for all of us. I understand why TikTok becomes a constant companion.

In all of this, I can’t help but reflect on Women’s Business in my own heritage as a Jewish woman.

In the Torah, our sacred story, the matriarchs struggled with fertility, motherhood and birth. They turned to something bigger than themselves, looking for answers, clarity, and hope. Some laughed. Many cried. But always, there was a search for meaning amid the chaos of life.

In today’s world, TikTok plays a new role. For women who might not feel comfortable asking questions, it offers information at their fingertips. It is free, engaging and validating. You hear real stories. You watch lives unfold. In some ways, it’s a modern Red Tent, a place where women can be heard, nourished, seen and held, even by people they will never meet.

Midwives have always held this space. Birth has always been part of the human story, and we have always needed support through it. Over the last five years, I have learned and will keep learning what it means to provide woman-centred care. At its core, that means creating a space where women feel safe to say what they need, where they feel listened to and respected. We have lost much of that deep connection in our hospital systems, and women are worse off for it.

I believe everyone in Australia should have access to timely midwifery care and a helping hand, not just those who can afford to pay. I want pregnant women to be cared for by someone they know and trust.

Which is why, as helpful as TikTok may be, it can never replace the care of a midwife. In an age of rapid AI, where algorithms shape so much of our lives, maybe I’ll be seen as a Luddite for still believing in human connection.

But I do. And only time will tell.

Sarah ‘Seb’ Basserabie is a Melbourne-based midwife and childbirth educator. She is currently undertaking a Masters in Primary Maternity Care.