I noticed I was starting to shake as I talked about it. And then came the tears.
This was not the first time in a few weeks I was experiencing this response.
When I finished, taking some shaky breaths and sitting in some shame, there was a moment of hesitancy.
"I think you may benefit from some birth processing," she said kindly, looking steadily at me.
I had been interviewing midwives because I was pregnant again, and knew I wanted a different experience this time around. And each time, they asked about my birth history. A loaded question.
The midwife who had suggested the birth processing was not the one who watched as I caught my own baby a few months later. But her simple observation greatly influenced the reason that birth was so empowering, radiant, and redemptive for me.
I took her handout and reached out to the first on the list under "Birth Processing".
Soon I was having regular life coaching calls with a skilled and empathetic woman, who was willing to not only allow, but encourage my messy process of healing.
A few sessions in, I found myself repeating the story of my son's birth. I was confused why this one brought up so much emotion. After all, it had been seven years.
His very first moments of life, I imagine, were filled with agonizing pain. Though he didn't even make a sound, he had broken his clavicle the moment he emerged into the light.
We didn't know this at first. He didn't cry right away, and thinking all babies did, and still recovering from the shock of my first unmedicated birth, I needed reassurance that he was alive. But then, the only word to describe how I felt was "rapture" as I held him close.
When they did the Apgar test, his oxygen was low, and they took him away. He ended up in the NICU to get the oxygen he needed. Which was when they discovered his broken collar bone.
Whenever I thought about this, I assumed it was all because I had pushed too fast. I imagined his emergence to be violent, abrupt, bone-shattering.
And for seven years I had blamed myself.
My son's first moments of his life were in agony. And it was my fault. I "welcomed" him into this life by inflicting instant, intense pain.
For some strange reason, these beliefs didn't damper my next birth experience. But with the one following hers, I was so hyper-focused on pushing "right" (not too fast), and so angry with myself that I failed at that one goal, that I didn't really even notice my new baby in my arms. It was hours before I allowed myself some relief that she was finally born, some feeble first greeting.
That's what an unprocessed birth experience can do.
As new moms, we get so busy with caring for our newborn and it all "going so fast", that we don't even have time to shower let alone process our birth experience.
But it lingers, it settles in the background, and leaves us feeling inadequate, guilty, broken.
Like a torn muscle or a bone that doesn't heal correctly. We find ourselves limping through motherhood, trying to keep a smile on our faces.
.........................................................................................................................................
I have the best news for you. It is NEVER too late to address birth trauma.
'Oh, I didn't have birth trauma,' you may be thinking. 'The baby and I were perfectly healthy. No emergency C-section, no hemorrhage.'
But trauma is less about the amount of blood and more about how you felt during your birth experience.
Afraid? Violated? Embarrassed? Objectified? Out of control?
Pregnancy and birth are like a greatly-anticipated hike up a very tall mountain*. The only thing to keep us going is that view at the top. But when we return from our adventure, we don't even rest for a moment before all the expectations (social and self-inflicted) begin. We don't share about how we felt on our hike when we almost fell off that cliff or got lost or had a glimpse of a bear. We aren't asked how disappointing it was to realize how much harder and different the hike was than we expected. And nobody told us what it would be like going back down (postpartum).
"How was the view?" they ask. "Did you make it to the top?"
Every mother must talk about her mountains. We need to share the STORY of all of it. If we don't, it unravels in a mess inside of us, leaving us confused, isolated, depressed.
There is beauty in the complexity of the mountain, both ascent and descent. The mother becomes experienced, strong, empathetic, in a way she couldn't be without it.
So share your story. Heal a little or a lot. It's not too late. It's never too late. If you are willing to courageously revisit the trauma of birth, you will find an appreciation for the woman who did all that and survived, and you will lend others the courage to do the same.
If you're interested in birth processing with the amazing Kim Tanner, click here. HIGHLY recommended.
*NOTE: The idea of birth and postpartum as a mountain climb was introduced to me by the brilliant Kimberly Ann Johnson who wrote this excellent postpartum guide. Also HIGHLY recommended. (Not an affiliate link)