I Still Cry After Some Births
It was a summer day spent in the library- I was wearing a nap dress and lugging around a giant tote full of notes and papers. Life planning, I called it- I had no task but accepting the time I had free to write and think. It was this day years ago that I first searched on my computer,
What is a doula?
I had no idea the way that small inquiry was about to change my life- it ignited something in my chest, I grew little wings on my back and on my heart, I was born again into a place of delicious possibility. I drove home that day with a new understanding- yep, I was going to be a doula.
Later that month, after I’d announced my new endeavor to everyone I knew, came a day when I was sitting across from a friend. We were out to brunch, catching up over cobb salads and french fries, and I was telling her all about it.
“I don’t think I’d be able to do that without crying… and I feel like you can’t cry as the doula.”
I thought about it. “Yeah, that’s gonna be hard.”
Some time later, in a moment just like that one, the same friend asked me:
“So, were you able to stop yourself from crying?”
I thought about it. “No, but I don’t think it matters.”
You may be thinking: after so many births, doesn’t the novelty wear off? At some point, doesn’t it start to feel more normal, more ordinary? More, “I’ve seen this before?” The short answer is no. The long answer is three-fold.
The Full-Spectrumness of it All
Some births crack you open. Not every birth is straightforward- sometimes, the tone is happiness, excitement, anticipation- and other times, it’s a sense of loss, of fear. It’s interventions and complicated emotions. It’s feeling more than one thing at a time. Not all of my tears come from a place of joy, and there is much to acknowledge about what it took to get there. There is so much in the birthspace that is invisible- trauma, relief, fear, grief- the greatest misconception about birth is that it’s a purely physical event. Birth is emotional, psychological, ancestral, and energetic. Tears are often as natural and involuntary a response as bleeding from a wound- I cannot think of anything more human than crying, and in the birthing space, I don’t try to stop it. Rather, I ensure that I do not center it.
The Responsibility of Witnessing
Like I said, birth is energetic. There is much to bear witness to- tangible and intangable, momentary and lasting, physically and spiritually. There is a reason we have coined the term birth keeper- we hold the energy, the fear, the hope, the invisible things that arise as we stand at the threshold of transition and becoming. We squeeze hips until our wrists hurt, we take the occasional sharp word from providers in stride. We are guiding breathwork on hour twelve of labor, shifting between making ourselves big or small as the room demands it. We drive home in silence, processing, we peel off our fluid-stained clothes, step into a cleansing shower at three in the morning. When you’ve taken on the role of holding everyone’s “stuff,” there comes a time when you will have to put it down. A release. When I was trained as a doula, my cohort was encouraged to think up a ritual for releasing. Some people move their bodies, others burn journal pages, I know someone who cancels all of the next day’s plans. I can’t think of an easier, more natural, more intuitive release than a good, healthy cry- and though I often wait until I’ve left the room to welcome it, it comes with consistency. A doula instructor once said to us, “tears are libation.” I’m considering stitching it onto a pillow.
Because I Care
It’s that simple- I’m human, the person I’m supporting is human, the people in the room are human, and we are collectively witnessing the birth of a new human- the room is buzzing with possibility, oxytocin is high and sweet, my client is often looking up at me, thanking me, transferring gratitude into me, and those moments are so special I’ve not yet figured out how to contain it in language. If I could bottle it up and share it, everyone would know fulfillment. I care about people, I have reverence for what’s happening, and therefore, I cry.
