Being present is not the same as being included, by Kieran Simkin

In this powerful guest blog, songwriter and father of three Kieran Simkin reflects on what it means to be present at the birth of your child, but not always to feel included. Drawing on his experiences of three very different births, Kieran explores the importance of listening to birth partners, providing clear and accessible communication, consent, and recognition of fathers as part of the wider circle of care, without displacing the needs and experiences of the person giving birth.

Accompanying the blog is Kieran’s incredible song, Birth Stories, which transforms these experiences into a moving first-person account of fatherhood, birth and the lasting impact of these moments. As Kieran so eloquently argues, "being in the room is not the same as being included".

The Following Young Fathers Further team welcome prospective requests to share blogs on our website. Please contact atarrant@lincoln.ac.uk if this is of interest.

Author note

Kieran Simkin is a Seaford-based songwriter and father of three. His song Birth Stories is a first-person account of what he experienced during the births of his children. This blog contains discussion of birth trauma, consent, medical procedures and an unexpected home birth.

I became a father three times, through three very different births. I was physically present for each of them, but presence did not always mean participation. At times I was expected to support my family while being treated as though I were furniture: allowed in the room, but not always heard as part of what was happening.

I want to be careful about whose story I am telling. These are my memories of what I experienced as a father and birth partner. I cannot speak for the people who gave birth, and I am not identifying my partners, children, clinicians, hospitals or emergency personnel.

During the first birth, labour continued for three days. From my perspective, we were repeatedly sent away while pain and exhaustion mounted. On our third visit I refused to leave. After admission I was told I could not stay on the ward, then called back urgently when the baby was coming. After the birth, I saw my partner catheterised with the baby placed out of reach at the end of the bed. I became angry and demanded help.

What stays with me is the contradiction. I was supposed to be the person providing practical and emotional support, but the structure around us did not consistently treat me as someone who could carry useful information, notice a problem or need clear instructions of my own.

At the second birth, I watched a doctor pick up a scalpel and move towards an episiotomy. A midwife interrupted to ask whether consent was going to be obtained. My partner refused. I later made a formal complaint. I do not know every pressure the staff were under, but I do know what I saw: the question about consent was asked only because somebody else stopped the moment and insisted on it.

The third birth happened unexpectedly at home. While preparing to leave for hospital, we realised there was no longer time. I called 999 and explained that I am autistic, become overwhelmed by overlapping speech and needed one instruction at a time. The questions and directions kept arriving together.

I was told to fetch towels, but not what they were for. I thought they were for cleaning and wrapping the baby. I did not understand that I was expected to use one to help catch them. When the baby arrived, they slipped through my hands and fell to the floor. The baby was checked and was fine. I was shaken.

That moment is why I do not see accessible communication as an optional kindness. In an emergency, a short explanation can change what somebody is able to do. If a person says, "I need one instruction at a time," repeating several instructions more loudly or quickly does not solve the problem.

Birth partners are not the patient, and centring them should never mean displacing the person giving birth. But that does not make partners irrelevant. A partner may be the person who knows what has already happened, what has been agreed, what communication works and what support will be needed next. They may also be frightened, overloaded or traumatised themselves.

For me, meaningful inclusion would have looked simple. Tell me what my role is. Explain what an instruction is for. Listen when I identify an access need. Let me flag a practical problem without treating concern as interference. After a frightening birth, offer space to ask what happened without assuming that a healthy baby means everybody else must be fine.

I eventually turned these memories into a song called Birth Stories. Writing it gave me a way to describe my own experience without claiming ownership of anybody else's. The track is not a blanket attack on maternity workers or the NHS. Beds matter, staffing matters and pressure matters. Listening, consent and accessible communication matter too.

The phrase I keep returning to is this: a birth partner is not furniture. Being in the room is not the same as being included. Inclusion means being given a clear, useful role, being heard when you hold relevant information and being treated as a person whose ability to understand can affect what happens next.

That is not a demand to make fathers the centre of birth. It is a request to recognise that respectful, father-inclusive practice can support the whole family while keeping the person giving birth at the centre of their own care.

Song and background