I’ve written quite a bit about my journey with my daughter. While this blog today might seem out of the norm for my site, I feel it’s incredibly necessary. I believe in prevention and wellness through focusing on the basics of health – nutrition, activity, sleep, thoughts, and breath. Because I work primarily with mommas (to-be, hopefuls, postpartum, etc.), birth is obviously a huge part of the focus. So much attention is given to the “ideal” birth, which, by our current standards is a non-medicated, all natural birth, one where mom and baby are joined immediately and mom feels empowered and instantly able to nurse and bond. This ideal...it’s wonderful, truly, but I think it also sets a lot of women up for feeling like failures, myself included. So I want to discuss that a bit today because going into motherhood feeling like a failure isn’t good for anyone.
I believed, truly and completely, that good nutrition and exercise during pregnancy would produce good outcomes. I was confident in my ability to have a natural birth. I knew it would be painful, but I was ready for that. I was, in some ways, excited to see how truly capable my body was. And then, after over 24 hours of labor, 12+ of which was VERY active, painful labor, I had to submit to an emergency c-section. My son wasn’t lining up with the birth canal as he needed to, combined with his 99%ile head circumference, he was in distress and every contraction made his heart rate drop dangerously low. There was no other option, for me, or for him. And so, doctors swooped in to deliver my baby, slicing me open and leaving me waiting to hold my baby as they patched me back together. I felt like a complete failure. As a woman. As a mother. As a wife. It was my JOB to make and birth babies. This was what women were meant to do. How had I failed to do so? How had my body, which I had cared for so intently throughout the pregnancy and in my life leading up to that, let me down?
Fast-forward a year. I’ve come to peace with my son’s birth. I don’t love it as my story, but I adore him and am proud to have been able to nurse him and care for him and watch him grow into a beautiful little boy. So, we try for a second, and just as with our first, I become pregnant with ease. This baby, I’m ready. I’ve studied more about how to properly position babies in utero (my son, it was later determined, was posterior, making things even more challenging and preventing me from having any breaks in contractions, instead just one on top of another, with truly no space to even catch my breath). I was regularly practicing visualization exercises and spinning baby techniques to ensure a redeeming, wonderful VBAC birth, to prove to myself and the universe that I was capable. I worked out. I ate well. I even found ways to make sure I was getting good nutrition despite nausea and a lack of appetite that lingered well into the 2nd trimester.
And then, barely into my third trimester, a mere 48 hours before her urgent appearance, it was discovered that I had severe preeclampsia, a condition that I had less than a 2% chance of developing A condition in which my body was literally rejecting the baby and the only “solution” was delivery. At 10 weeks premature, a VBAC wasn’t even an option. My daughter was too small and having difficulty getting enough oxygen already. A c-section was, again, the only option. Disappointed, frustrated, ashamed, I was at least more prepared. This time I would ask to be able to see her being born (I had missed this with my son). I would ask for no curtain. I would at least see my baby come into the world, and if she was ok, for a moment, I would be able to hold her immediately.
But, the universe had other plans. Two unsuccessful spinal attempts, both of which ended in the needle touching my spinal nerves and resulting in a shock and pain so intense that I believed I was either paralyzed or truly dying, and I had to be put under immediately, as my daughter’s heart rate plummeted. And, moments after I was under, she was ripped from my body as fast as humanly possible. I did not see her be born. I did not hold her until days later. I don’t even remember seeing her until at least 24 hours after she had entered this world (too groggy and disoriented from the lingering anesthesia the first time I apparently got to see her). Again, my body had failed. I hadn’t even been able to keep her safe until term. And, tiny and fragile, she couldn’t even nurse. Still, 2 months later, she only suckles occasionally, and now only for practice, not for actual nutrition. And, although I give her primarily pumped milk, her calorie needs are such that my milk isn’t enough (or, as my mind likes to say, I’M not enough), and I have to give her formula fortifier to boost her calories (disclaimer: I’m not “against” formula; at the end of the day, a fed baby is the best baby, but for me, personally, breastfeeding was something I wanted and formula was something I did not want). Again, I couldn’t take care of my daughter. Again, I had “failed” my baby. This time around, she needed doctors, nurses, and a whole stream of health care professionals to keep her alive and healthy; her momma wasn’t enough.
So, why am I sharing all this? I had a midwife with my son who said that when you go into labor, you don’t get the midwife you want, but the one you need. I wonder if I perhaps have gotten the babies I “needed”, even if their births weren’t what I “wanted”. I wonder if I needed to see this other side. If, in some ways, I was too biased about a natural birth being the “only” way and breastfeeding being the “only” option. I wonder if these babies of mine are helping me see more of the world, preparing me to be a better practitioner and momma. I wonder if my baby girl’s NICU stay was to teach me humility and patience and that so much of the world and this life is not in my control and that’s something I have to come to peace with. I’m not saying I’ve reached peace and clarity on any of these things yet. I just wonder if, perhaps, that’s why I’ve experienced the births and the challenges that I have. Perhaps the universe knew I needed them, and, more importantly, that I could somehow survive them.
I share all this because I want you to know that I’ve been there. I’ve been in the place of wanting everything just so. I’ve been in the place of having to make tough decisions. I’ve been in the birth that I never imagined having. We talk so much about the “ideal” birth, that labor that went perfectly, the friend that barely had to push and had a baby in her arms. We idealize those beautiful moments where mom births her baby with no real assistance and then holds that lovely new human as the rest of the world melts away. And those are beautiful stories and pictures. They’re wonderful, and certainly something to strive, hope, and plan for. But, BUT, I think we need to talk more about the births that don’t go according to plan. It’s not enough to have a healthy baby at the end…you’ve carried this person for months (hopefully, 9!). You’ve loved them and worried about from the moment you knew of them. You imagined their birth. You imagined the moment when you would finally meet. You had hopes and dreams for this moment. When it doesn’t go as you expected, planned, or wanted, it’s ok to be angry. It’s ok to mourn what you didn’t get. It’s ok to feel cheated and jealous of those who got what you hoped for. It’s ok to hate your birth story, but love your baby.
I say all these things as much for myself as for you, because I’m daily working to find peace in this. My role as a perinatal nutritionist and fitness specialist is more than just meal plans and exercise routines; my goal is to assist you so that you can have the best pregnancy, labor, birth, postpartum, and motherhood journey possible, no matter what that journey looks like for you and whether it’s what you wanted or what you were given.
Fast-forward a year. I’ve come to peace with my son’s birth. I don’t love it as my story, but I adore him and am proud to have been able to nurse him and care for him and watch him grow into a beautiful little boy. So, we try for a second, and just as with our first, I become pregnant with ease. This baby, I’m ready. I’ve studied more about how to properly position babies in utero (my son, it was later determined, was posterior, making things even more challenging and preventing me from having any breaks in contractions, instead just one on top of another, with truly no space to even catch my breath). I was regularly practicing visualization exercises and spinning baby techniques to ensure a redeeming, wonderful VBAC birth, to prove to myself and the universe that I was capable. I worked out. I ate well. I even found ways to make sure I was getting good nutrition despite nausea and a lack of appetite that lingered well into the 2nd trimester.
And then, barely into my third trimester, a mere 48 hours before her urgent appearance, it was discovered that I had severe preeclampsia, a condition that I had less than a 2% chance of developing A condition in which my body was literally rejecting the baby and the only “solution” was delivery. At 10 weeks premature, a VBAC wasn’t even an option. My daughter was too small and having difficulty getting enough oxygen already. A c-section was, again, the only option. Disappointed, frustrated, ashamed, I was at least more prepared. This time I would ask to be able to see her being born (I had missed this with my son). I would ask for no curtain. I would at least see my baby come into the world, and if she was ok, for a moment, I would be able to hold her immediately.
But, the universe had other plans. Two unsuccessful spinal attempts, both of which ended in the needle touching my spinal nerves and resulting in a shock and pain so intense that I believed I was either paralyzed or truly dying, and I had to be put under immediately, as my daughter’s heart rate plummeted. And, moments after I was under, she was ripped from my body as fast as humanly possible. I did not see her be born. I did not hold her until days later. I don’t even remember seeing her until at least 24 hours after she had entered this world (too groggy and disoriented from the lingering anesthesia the first time I apparently got to see her). Again, my body had failed. I hadn’t even been able to keep her safe until term. And, tiny and fragile, she couldn’t even nurse. Still, 2 months later, she only suckles occasionally, and now only for practice, not for actual nutrition. And, although I give her primarily pumped milk, her calorie needs are such that my milk isn’t enough (or, as my mind likes to say, I’M not enough), and I have to give her formula fortifier to boost her calories (disclaimer: I’m not “against” formula; at the end of the day, a fed baby is the best baby, but for me, personally, breastfeeding was something I wanted and formula was something I did not want). Again, I couldn’t take care of my daughter. Again, I had “failed” my baby. This time around, she needed doctors, nurses, and a whole stream of health care professionals to keep her alive and healthy; her momma wasn’t enough.
So, why am I sharing all this? I had a midwife with my son who said that when you go into labor, you don’t get the midwife you want, but the one you need. I wonder if I perhaps have gotten the babies I “needed”, even if their births weren’t what I “wanted”. I wonder if I needed to see this other side. If, in some ways, I was too biased about a natural birth being the “only” way and breastfeeding being the “only” option. I wonder if these babies of mine are helping me see more of the world, preparing me to be a better practitioner and momma. I wonder if my baby girl’s NICU stay was to teach me humility and patience and that so much of the world and this life is not in my control and that’s something I have to come to peace with. I’m not saying I’ve reached peace and clarity on any of these things yet. I just wonder if, perhaps, that’s why I’ve experienced the births and the challenges that I have. Perhaps the universe knew I needed them, and, more importantly, that I could somehow survive them.
I share all this because I want you to know that I’ve been there. I’ve been in the place of wanting everything just so. I’ve been in the place of having to make tough decisions. I’ve been in the birth that I never imagined having. We talk so much about the “ideal” birth, that labor that went perfectly, the friend that barely had to push and had a baby in her arms. We idealize those beautiful moments where mom births her baby with no real assistance and then holds that lovely new human as the rest of the world melts away. And those are beautiful stories and pictures. They’re wonderful, and certainly something to strive, hope, and plan for. But, BUT, I think we need to talk more about the births that don’t go according to plan. It’s not enough to have a healthy baby at the end…you’ve carried this person for months (hopefully, 9!). You’ve loved them and worried about from the moment you knew of them. You imagined their birth. You imagined the moment when you would finally meet. You had hopes and dreams for this moment. When it doesn’t go as you expected, planned, or wanted, it’s ok to be angry. It’s ok to mourn what you didn’t get. It’s ok to feel cheated and jealous of those who got what you hoped for. It’s ok to hate your birth story, but love your baby.
I say all these things as much for myself as for you, because I’m daily working to find peace in this. My role as a perinatal nutritionist and fitness specialist is more than just meal plans and exercise routines; my goal is to assist you so that you can have the best pregnancy, labor, birth, postpartum, and motherhood journey possible, no matter what that journey looks like for you and whether it’s what you wanted or what you were given.