I’m a procrastinator. No, really. Like, if I have to do something and I have a deadline, it will always be done at the very last moment. Always. That is what surprised me most about birth. It happens. It happens when it happens, you can’t decide, control or postpone the time of birth. And this detail left me gobsmacked. I was so used to over thinking and procrastinating that I was shocked, . . .
Most doulas seem to come to this work after an epiphany during childbirth. Something happened, or didn’t happened, that made them want to help other women navigate the entry into motherhood. They come to this work from a deeply personal place. That’s not my story.
One of my earliest childhood memories is one of feeling unaccounted for and misplaced. I’m standing in a toy store, eyeing the dolls on the shelves – each of them packaged so neatly with their shiny hair, plastic shoes, and dainty dresses. Their painted lips smile back almost begging to be selected, taken home, and lovingly played with by the little girl before them. Some of them resemble my mother . . .
When thinking about cultural diversity many people do not immediately think about military culture. But this culture is real and it runs through every military family’s veins with their blood.
Her eyes glazed over, her brow dripping, the scent of birth fills the air and the room is electric with the otherworldly roar of power as she releases a new spirit into the world. She’s neither here nor there, but wherever she is, it’s alive, it’s primal and it’s somewhere transformative.