The Birth That Changed the Way I Listen: On becoming a different kind of doula.
There are births you remember, and then some births become part of you. Part of your being. Part of what defines you. A year ago, I attended a birth that changed me profoundly.
I'm not going to tell you every detail of that birth here. Some stories aren't mine to tell in their entirety, and some experiences deserve privacy long after the room has emptied and everyone has gone home and gone on with their lives. What I am here to tell you is what changed in me, because after I left that birth and that experience, there were realisations that I couldn’t just shake, about birth, about the doula I had become. About what it means to support a mother, a father, a family, and to be completely honest, uncomfortably what it meant to be myself.
For a long time, I thought being a good doula meant knowing. Having all of the answers, being the most known, the most knowledgeable, surrounded by other doulas and birthworkers that hyped you up (but were also secretly against you). I do suppose that things like knowing physiology, positions, comfort measures, risks of interventions, and all the bells and whistles do matter. Still, in this experience I learned that there is indeed another type of knowledge that matters just as much as all of these: LISTENING.
Listening and waiting to form a response. Not hearing, listening. Listening and not filtering out the parts that don’t sound like what I want this birth to be or look like. Listening and not seeking the words that will help me convince someone to make the choice that I want them to. Listening. To the woman who is standing in front of me, looking to me for guidance, when she holds the power to decide intuitively for herself.
Coming to this realization is exactly what changed everything.
I started thinking about all the mothers I had supported before that birth. Every one. The mothers whose choices looked like mine, and the ones who didn't. The ones who wanted an unmedicated birth and the ones who wanted an epidural. The ones who wanted a hospital and the ones who wanted a birth center or to go home. The ones who changed their minds and the ones who had plans that changed completely, wildly. The ones who knew exactly what they wanted, and the ones who had absolutely no idea what they wanted yet. Through this, I realized that somewhere along the way, I had created an idea in my head of what a good doula looked like, and therefore what a good birth looked like too. And without realizing it, I had learned how to measure myself and perhaps even the women I supported against that picture of what I thought was perfection. After this birth and this profound experience, it was where I had to decide to realize: I didn’t want to do that anymore. A mother doesn't need to become the kind of mother I understand best for me to support her well. And that includes needing to birth the way I would, make the choices I would make, share in my philosophies, and above all, she doesn’t even need to agree with me. What she does need is someone who can be by her side and say, “You know what, I’m here. Tell me what you need”, then actually listen.
And in the midst of processing everything that unfolded in this birth, I learned humility.
Typically when I have faced an opportunity to be humble, I’ve felt like I had to make myself small, but this was the kind of humility where you understand that two things can exist in the same space. I realized I could know a lot and at the same time, not know everything. I could have experience, and still have more to learn. I could advocate fiercely for mothers, while also remembering that the mother is the one living this life, not me. So when I realized this, I knew the next step was accepting that sometimes the most powerful thing a doula can offer isn't another position, another technique, another statistic, or another opinion, but its presence and reminding a mama that she is allowed to listen to herself.
And somewhere in all of that, I found Gabriela again.
Isn’t that strange? I went into birth work because I wanted to find a place where I could serve women (and mothers) wholly, and unfortunately, along the way, I got very attached to what I thought that was supposed to look like and what rhetoric I was supposed to follow. This experience was what cracked me open, and through the cracks came something softer, more honest, less interested in trying to prove my worth and display all that I knew. I was more interested in becoming someone worthy of being trusted. You see, I don’t want Nido to be a place where women come and learn how to birth or mother “the right way”. I want it to be a place where all different types of women can come and feel loved, encouraged, informed, and heard. And where mothers can be mothered. The becoming is where we find ourselves, and when, from one woman to another, we hold space and witness it all.
As we have just passed the year mark of this birth, I’ve thought about that day more times than I could ever count. There are things I wish I had done differently. Things I wish I had said. Moments I wish I had been braver. I have also come to understand that regret doesn't have to be the end of a story. It can become instruction for your next season. It can lead us to humility, where growth is found. It can become a beginning. A beginning of a completely different way of moving forward and recognizing you don’t have to be the same again. I don't want to spend this anniversary only looking backward, but I want to honor what that experience taught me by letting it shape the woman, wife, mother, and the doula I am continuing to become.
A year later, I'm still listening. And that’s the whole point. To never stop listening and growing again.