My Birth Story

“What used to be a pain is a lovely bench where we rest under the roses.” Rumi

Since burning in the fire of motherhood and rising through it, I have a whole new appreciation for women. I always felt called to the pathway of motherhood, even supporting women as a doula when I was in my early 20s. Until actually walking the journey myself, I couldn’t have imagined it’s depths. I have a new appreciation for the complexity of women and their immense capacity to hold paradox, pain, intensity, and a Love that feels to me the closest thing to the Divine. 

In the past year I have felt more love than I ever could have imagined, and been rocked with deep exhaustion. I have wanted to share every moment with my baby and felt relief when I have a moment alone to shower. I have yearned for the days of independence, and I know these are the best days of my life so far. I have settled into a new understanding of my own mother’s urge for control and how that urge surges through me now as a mother. I have a deep gratitude for the sacrifices my own mother made for me, and the wisdom she was imparting on me even when I wasn’t ready to see it. 

Recently I have seen the sentiment circulating online that there are only women and their children living on this planet. It’s true. All of us came from a woman’s womb. And it’s a paradox. Birth is essential and universal, while also miraculous and individual. No two stories of a mother and child are the same. Here is my side of our story.

Pregnancy

Pregnancy and birth taught me to trust my instincts beyond anything else. When I gave birth a part of me died and transmuted, giving way to a strength, stamina, and certainty that I never had known. It was the birth of a mother. No longer willing to abandon myself, or to follow blind indoctrination to the rules of others, instead dancing only to the rhythm of my own spirit’s pulse. 

When life seeded within me, I was going through the process of moving to Argentina, a new home for me, where I was still acclimatizing to the language and culture. Everything external was changing, forcing me to root deeply into my own body, mind and spirit. 

I was determined to give birth at home. I had previously had a traumatic experience in the Amazon in Ecuador falling sick and needing emergency medical treatment in a rural, mostly outdoor hospital, without knowing the language. I knew being in an unfamiliar setting, especially without a full grasp of Spanish yet, would spiral me back into old fears, and that I would lose my anchor during labor. Having been a doula for years, I wanted a natural birth. I was unwilling to expose myself to the hospital cascade of interventions, unless a crisis warranted it. But birth usually isn’t a crisis. I wanted to feel safe, and for me that was at home. I fully grasped life and death are two sides of the same coin. Facing death and understanding it is in the room in the birthing space, allowed me to claim my decision to be at home. I was determined.

Midway through our pregnancy, our daughter was tracking small in ultrasounds. Our providers suggested more frequent ultrasounds, every two weeks. I felt like I was falling into a system of medical hypervigilence and listening to a doctor beyond listening to my instincts. It was too much.  No intervention is without side effects and I knew frequent ultrasounds could carry some impact on the baby. I started listening to The Great Birth Rebellion podcast and had a consultation with a midwife at Ina May Gaskin’s Farm. The combo helped us felt confident in refusing further ultrasounds, backed by the understanding that they are an imperfect estimate of size. We chose not to follow the recommendation, determined to lean into what I felt in my body, which was a deep knowing that she was ok. Making a different choice from a medical provider’s recommendation, seeking second opinions, leaning into unwavering trust of my own instincts and intuition, it was all foreign for me.

At 41 weeks our providers were starting to let us know they wouldn’t be able to accompany us past 42 weeks at home. I decided that even if our providers chose not to accompany me, as long as everything felt good in my body, I would carry on and birth this baby at home. I wrote a letter, that in hindsight was more intense than it needed to be, to our care providers expressing my frustration at the limitations they were placing on me. They were willing to hear me out, coming to the house, talking it through, all of us crying together. The conversation was humbling, reminding me of the risk providers take to attend births at home in countries where its not the norm. It is deeply unfortunate that providers, trying to empower mothers with choices in birth, have to carry their own fears of prosecution.

It was a moment of reckoning for me that although challenging, was one of the most poignant gifts of the pregnancy and birth. To listen to the quiet voice that all was well, not the pulse of machines, not the sound of scans, not the timeline of others, not multiple other expert opinions—well, it went against everything I was raised with and gave me everything I needed to be a mother. All I needed was to stop listening to the outside world and follow the guidance of the still, small voice within.

Birth

Ten months of full moons had come and gone, each one I had grown more and more round, just like a luna llena.  And now it was time to open for her to cross the threshold into earth side existence. At 41 weeks and one day, I downed a spoonful of castor oil after breakfast and several hours later, midway through Bridesmaids, shortly after their own bathroom scene, the castor oil kicked in and labor was on. The contractions came in fierce intense waves. Every 5 minutes, throwing up everything in me. All. Night. Long. I had intense back labor, only the warm water could touch it. My partner, steadfast alongside me, would gently grab my face, asking me to open my eyes, “Baby, are you ok?” “I’m in the zone.” I was in a hypnotic trance, calming yoga music, breath, and my body, wave after wave. Our midwives arrived in the evening and held vigil, while my body rhythmically opened. 

The sun rose bright over the mountains, a sea of pink in the sky, flooding our bedroom with light. One of our providers suggested it was time to change up the music and shift the energy. The slow, rhythmic yoga music that had rocked me through the night needed to adjust to a pulse that could support pushing. We used Spotify shuffle to search for drums and rhythm, and the first words of a random song, without ever having heard this song before, was the name we had already given our daughter. It felt miraculous, like the universe was calling her earthside, her name echoing through the room with the rhythm of the drums.

I had been fully dilated for hours with a slight cervical lip remaining. One of our providers expressed a concern that me or baby could get tired soon. I was exhausted. 

She said, “Is there anything left you haven’t said yet? Anything you are holding back?” 

I paused, tearful and tired, “I’m afraid I won’t be able to do it.” 

“Now you’re ready to push. It’s going to feel like you are going to split in two, and you have to be willing to die, to be reborn a mother.” 

It took facing my fear to bring me to the brink to be able to go for it. “Give me twenty minutes to sleep and a yogurt and I will be ready to push.” I slept between contractions, downed a yogurt and leaned into my partner. 

We danced, we moved, we swayed and we squatted. After an hour of pushing, hanging in a squat from my partner’s arms, our daughter squeezed out in one big, full burst. She was so quiet, so sweet, so small. There is nothing to describe that moment. The whole world stood still for her, not even a cry, just an ocean of eyes gazing back into mine. Our midwife commented, “what a peace she came with,” since she emerged quietly. I held her, and my partner held me. We were crying and laughing and she was gazing at us with total wonder. 

There is a Hindu story of a mother gazing into the mouth of her son, Govinda, only to see the entire expansion of the universe. She is overwhelmed until a veil is placed over her eyes again allowing her to see what she can handle, the divine Krishna in his human form. The first gaze into my daughter’s eyes felt like this. Everything, everywhere, all at once—it all made sense. 

It was true, she was a bit small when she came out. I was worried something was wrong with her because she was so quiet, but then she reached for the breast. She was utter contentment. She was born in the same place she was conceived, with peace, with love, with tranquility, without any intervention or rushing around her; welcomed by a team of women we loved. We settled into a slow, beautiful day of getting to know each other earth side. 

I felt so validated that she was ok; she didn’t need any of the extra interventions our team had recommended, all of the concerns burned away with the morning sunlight. Nothing touches your own knowing and truth. I am so incredibly grateful to have tapped into my instincts as a mother and a woman, and for the gift of the fight that I had to endure to listen to that knowing, even in the shadow of other people’s doubt and fear. 

Postpartum

Those instincts nestled around me, as I cocooned around our baby. Immediately postpartum, I rested and stayed close to home. My partner brought me food, including smoothies with frozen pieces of my placenta as the first days passed. I felt grounded, steady and calm when I had my daughter in my arms. Everything in me said to keep her close. For the first three months postpartum any time I was in the shower, or heard running water, I thought I could hear my baby crying. Birth brings you into the elemental world. Water, blood, earth and fire. I look back on that time with such compassion now—a year later, my face more wrinkled, bags under my eyes, but a Love burning within my heart and an animal part awakened in my body.

Having a baby is so vulnerable. You grow an entire little heart and eventually that extra little heart leaves your body and the cord is cut. At first it’s always nearby, holding, rocking, carrying that little love everywhere. Then they start crawling. And walking. And you stand watching that little heart you grew inside your body, wandering the world, exploring and returning in ever widening circles. As we honor the threshold of a year since our daughter’s birth, I wonder at the miraculous nature of it all. She is toddling about, babbling, eating, and shrieking with delight at the horses and dogs. And while I am pouring my soul into her, there also seems to be a natural current of life force carrying her along as she grows exponentially.

Feeling into my capacity to grow life, to produce an elixir of life sustaining milk, is a potency beyond anything else I have experienced thus far. Over a year later, I am still breastfeeding, cosleeping and deeply loving our little toddler. For me this was a process of unwinding an anxiety-driven impulse to optimize absolutely everything, or in other words attempt to control. My body knew what to do, to grow life and to feed her. It just took trusting, softening, surrendering. The process was the point.

It is the best and hardest thing I have ever done. 

Women are incredible. 

And I get the privilege of raising one.