Birth Story: Part 2 “The Underbelly”
I did everything I could to prepare for my daughter’s birth. I saw a physical therapist (PT) throughout my pregnancy and hired an amazing doula. I ran until 16 weeks pregnant and then switched to Vinyasa Yoga and a three to four-mile walk, five days/week. I did my handstand practice until 38 weeks pregnant (with well managed blood pressure, of course). I did biomechanical birth training with my husband, and PT. I was ready. Intellectually I knew not to hold firm to a rigid plan – this would only end in disappointment. But emotionally, I didn’t realize how attached I was to the idea of a vaginal birth until I didn’t have one. My bias against medical intervention in birth was deeper than I knew, and in turn I felt betrayed by my own body. But I also recognized that those same medical interventions saved two lives that day.
In the initial days following my birth, I felt nothing but love and gratitude for the intensely focused and loving care my family received from the staff at the family birth center. But in the sleep deprived darkness of the next few weeks, that gratitude turned to immense guilt. Had my stubbornness in wanting a physiological birth placed my child at risk? Did my persistence at positioning and unwillingness to accept intervention sooner, mean that we pushed her life to the brink, then requiring resuscitation? How could I have been so selfish? Now I was hamstrung by grief for the birth I didn’t have, the fact that I pushed too hard for it, and the sadness that my efforts were in vain.
The weeks after my daughter’s delivery were lonesome. Trapped in the late hours with my thoughts. Toggling the worst-case scenarios back and forth in my mind. What if something terrible happens to her? What if something terrible happens to me? What if my body never recovers from this? How will I ever have the energy to go back to work? How will I get the car seat into the car by myself? How will we afford pre-school...and on and on and on. No one could help me heal my grief.
But many together could. One gifted meal. One coffee and offer to hold the baby so I could shower. One walk and mid-afternoon beer. One boba wrap tutorial. One great sleep training program. One amazing postpartum healing app. One day at a time choosing seven minutes of self-care. I slowly began to recognize myself again. No longer the woman I was holding onto the idea of. Finally ready to accept the woman I had become. Raw, real, messy, emotional, but so much better, wiser, more resilient, more driven. This version was a survivor. The potential of who I might become, and what good could come of this experience was untapped.
I didn’t know what was coming next. But I knew what I could control. I could forgive myself. I could stand in gratitude for my healthy miraculous daughter. I could greet myself each day with grace, patience, and kindness. I could choose to put myself first for one small sliver of each day. To meditate, to stretch, to move. I could throw myself back into work, and show each patient and new mother, at any phase of healing, that same grace.