“I’ve never told anyone this,” she whispered and leaned across the cafe table. She proceeded to share the harder, truer side of her birth story–the story of when she felt powerless, voiceless, and ignored while laboring with her first child. Two years later, she still felt confused. Her baby was healthy. Her body physically recovered after her birth. She and her husband wanted more children, yet when she thought about delivering again, her body quaked. She could name, “Everyone says I should be grateful for a healthy delivery, but I had pictured it so differently. I want it to be different next time. Is that crazy?” Her eager eyes begged for hope.
And so I continued my work as a birth doula. For more than a decade, I’ve been honored to navigate this conversation with clients and dear friends. Hundreds of birth stories I have collected in my lap. I’ve discussed birth across languages, cultures, and ages. Quite often, women’s stories are ones of grief, or less nameable: Something is off.
Like my friend, they know something was missing, but they hold back from talking about it with others. In other circumstances, the mothers tell a tale of great power and mystery, but do not know the language through which to fully express it. Some mothers’ story retellings bring laughter, tears, deep nods of understanding from listeners, and a sense of connection for all. Regardless of the type of story they carry, the impact of bearing witness to their stories matters immensely.
When mothers hear of my doula work, very often they exclaim, “Oh! That’s so needed.” Without much prodding, their stories spill forth. I carry quite a few stories with me.
Stories from women in my community; stories my mother shared about my birth; stories from books; stories from friends across an ocean. Each story is a thread that drapes over my shoulders, forming a sarong-like cloak. New stories run along the threads of older stories, and when the new find a similar tale, they attach themselves, bonding to their sister stories. From such stories, I have learned the rhythms of birth.
As I attend women in labor, I bear that cloak of stories with me into the birth chamber.
As a momma labors, the Wisdom from the stories might whisper:
Let’s get her moving.
She needs water.
She’s known great pain, she needs to feel safe right now.
She needs to be reminded of her own voice and power.
She needs a distraction.
She needs nothing from you. Sit and hold space for her.
As women bear down with contractions, I bear witness–to their joys, struggles, triumphs, fears, and vulnerable thoughts. I am never the sole witness, though, only a link, connecting the already-lived stories and breathing them over emerging stories.
If you have never birthed a child, but wanted to, we see you.
If you have birthed a child who did not live, we hear your cries.
If you have birthed a healthy child and something felt missing, we understand.
If you have birthed a child and felt something heal within you, we see you.
Each of your stories matters. You are not alone in your journeys. The collective of others’ stories accompanies you. Our story collection informs us, guides us, and becomes us, whether or not we’re conscious of it. But first, we must tell and hear the tales.
A friend begins to speak, and we listen beyond words to hear her. Through deeply knowing her story, we can validate her story.
“Wow! That’s incredible,” we say.
“Wow! That’s a lot.”
Or simply, “Wow,” with love and tenderness.
By validating someone’s lived experience, it gives room for their soul to exhale. It communicates, Yes, this mattered. Validation gives them space to grieve, celebrate, and make meaning from it.
Our judgment-free, engaged responses to others’ stories can invite them to greater wholeness simply by bearing witness to their tale. Having someone skilled to help us through our story means we might live out a different experience next time. (My friend did!)
I learned to collect birth stories as a doula; however, holding space for stories is a sacred work that belongs to us all. May you work with your own story–birth or another story–in a way that empowers you. When space is available to you, may you hold space for others. Perhaps when someone shares her story, you lean across the table, mirror her body’s language and say gently with your eyes, Your story matters. Thanks for telling me.
Note: When retelling a traumatic story in chronological order, one can relive the trauma. Please reach out to skilled therapists to help you process a heavy experience in a safe way.
Nicole Boehrig lives in the mountains of North Carolina with her adventurous husband, two creative children, and a fierce Jack Russell. She educates her children at home, tries to be outside as much as possible, runs an Airbnb, and aims to live wholeheartedly. She would be honored to hear your story, and you can connect with her on Instagram @Nicole.boehrig or via email at boehrig2@gmail.com.
Thank you, Nicole, for accompanying others in their stories, and for extending freedom to us to enter into our own with grace.
What a way to phrase that. Thank YOU, Lacey.