Q&A | Maggie Shannon Captures the Pain & Joy of Childbirth

When we heard that Maggie Shannon’s new book Extreme Pain, Extreme Joy would be published by Mother Tongue this fall, we cold-emailed the LA-based photographer, hoping she could spare some time for a VAG interview. Maggie graciously said yes and we took the opportunity to learn more about her experience photographing midwife-assisted births during the height of the Covid pandemic — and how it led to a subsequent project photographing individuals giving and receiving care at an increasingly inaccessible late-stage abortion clinic.

In addition to her passion projects (which include a much lighter series on pie eating contests), Maggie’s commercial work ranges from celebrity portraits to documenting prom-going teens for the New York Times. Check out her portfolio and order a copy of “Extreme Pain, Extreme Joy,” plus a few extras for your favorite people.

At a time marked by separation and death, these stories of connection, care, and birth are especially healing. Childbearing and the work of midwives is not well documented; the realities of childbirth are still taboo. When a difficult process is made even harder by a global pandemic and restrictive laws, the need to be honest about childbirth and our own bodies is even more important. – Maggie Shannon, The PhMuseum 

Can you tell us a little about the book?

The images in the book come from a project I worked on from 2020 to 2022, documenting midwives during the pandemic. Angela Garbes wrote the introduction essay, and I couldn’t be more excited about it. I absolutely love her books, Essential Labor and Like a Mother. I read Like a Mother while my daughter was in the NICU for two months, and it was such a meaningful experience. Her writing is so powerful—it helped me process many of the emotions I was feeling at the time.

The book also includes a conversation at the end between me and Gem Fletcher, a writer and curator. We discuss my personal history, my approach to photographing this story, and my newest project documenting abortion clinics across the U.S.

You’ve written that what was happening with hospital births during the pandemic made you furious. Did that anger help fuel the project?

Oh, absolutely—at the start of COVID, there were so many stories about women being separated from their newborns, and partners weren’t allowed in the birthing room. Women were laboring alone, which made an already challenging process even harder in a country where giving birth is difficult to begin with.

As I worked on this story, I kept uncovering more about the history of women’s health, midwifery, pregnancy, and childbirth—and to put it bluntly, just how deeply flawed and broken the system is.

How did your anger get channeled into such tender and rawly beautiful images?

I wanted to show what was happening outside of hospitals during the pandemic. People were turning to another option — giving birth at home with a midwife. So the project became less focused on the pandemic and more about celebrating these midwives who were providing this incredible, patient-led care. 

I think of midwives as having access to a wealth of tried-and-true knowledge that gets ignored by the traditional healthcare system.

One of the midwives I met in Michigan was a licensed midwife whose training was rooted in generational wisdom, and her apprentice was a nurse midwife who had a more scientific background. It was so amazing to see their dynamic and how they balanced and learned from each other.

There's so much missing in our healthcare system and I’m only speaking to this tiny little sliver of it, but it really seems like it's just too polarized. These two women really showed me something different — you can have both types of guidance. And when they're integrated, how beautiful it is and how lucky their clients are to get care from both of them.

Pelvic floor PTs are similar in a way. They practice evidence-based medicine, but they also have an understanding of the mind-body connection that goes further. 

I can completely see that comparison. During my pelvic floor therapy, my therapist taught me how to breathe into my core, and it was amazing to connect with my body in a new way. It might sound a bit cheesy, but I truly feel more whole because of it. I was learning to connect my brain to different parts of my body and deepen my understanding of those connections.

To come back to the mothers you photographed, one thing that struck me is their power as creators. It makes me think about how, as a mom, you continue to shape the world for your child from that day on. 

I find that interesting because, while I used to pursue these projects for myself and to satisfy my own curiosity, now that my daughter Charlotte is here, I feel like I’m doing them for her. With abortion, women’s health, and rights so uncertain right now, working on projects that can genuinely impact people—especially my daughter—feels incredibly important. It’s even more meaningful as a mother, channeling not just my anger but also my hope into this work. Hope for her future. Hope for a better future.

My mom is amazing. She’s a retired nurse and did an incredible job preparing me for my future. I don’t think I would have pursued any of these stories without her support. But her generation faced limitations, just as I’m sure my generation does too.

Still, I want to prepare Charlotte for her future the way my mom prepared me, with the hope that her generation will take yet another step forward.

What was it like to transition from photographing scenes of childbirth to taking photographs at abortion clinics? 

I feel like I couldn’t have done the abortion work without first immersing myself in the work of midwives assisting childbirth. That experience placed me in such a beautiful position to be open to these stories.

For instance, the first clinic I worked with was founded by a midwife and an OB. I wouldn’t have discovered it if another midwife hadn’t told me about a newsletter I was following—that’s how I ended up connected to that world.

The clinic I worked with specialized in later-term abortions, and many of the women there were going through labor. I was already familiar with the process, but emotionally, it was an entirely different experience. It’s complex—there are so many layers to it, and I’m still processing my time there.

There are so many nuances from one birth to the next, and from one abortion to the next. 

I’ve had many conversations about this complexity with other women photographers, as well as with family and friends. When I started working at the abortion clinic, I had a very black-and-white perspective on abortion—I’m firmly pro-choice. But during that project, I came to understand just how much gray area exists. And I realized it’s okay to feel sadness in that room, witnessing the procedure. For some, it’s a deeply emotional experience. For others, it’s simply about removing fetal tissue. 

When you were photographing different births, did it also give you a new perspective?

I think what it taught me, and what it prepared me for in my own birth experience, was the understanding that my birth would be unique—different from anything I’d ever witnessed. I knew that because I’d seen firsthand how every birth I photographed was its own distinct experience.

Did it feel strange to be in the room with these birthing people, witnessing such an intimate and intense experience?

I remember talking to one of my favorite people I photographed, Laura Swanson. She had a long labor that ended with a hospital transfer. When I sent her a gallery of the photos—I always shared galleries with the people I worked with to ensure they felt safe with what was captured—I told her, 'I’m worried about sending these because it seemed like such a traumatic experience, and I don’t want to trigger anything.'

Her response completely shifted my perspective. She said, 'Maggie, I wasn’t even there. What happened? Show me, because I missed it.'

She was thrilled to see the photos. She told me, 'I was so out of it, but you were there, and now I can see what it was like.' Through the images, she could witness moments she’d been unaware of—her dog Bernie trying to climb into the birthing pool, her husband’s actions, her doula’s support. It gave her a view of the experience she’d been too removed from to fully grasp. I hadn’t considered that perspective. I was so focused on not re-traumatizing her that I hadn’t realized the value the photos could bring.

That was a big learning moment for me. During her birth, there were several times I hesitated, unsure whether I should photograph something. But almost every time I paused, either Laura or her midwife would urge me, 'Go, get in there. These photos don’t exist—you need to take them.'

So I did. And it felt so special. I realized people want these photos. People need them.