If you haven’t read Part 1 of this story, I recommend starting there first.
Just a word of caution, this does contain live birth details (although not in any kind of explicit or gory detail). Birth experiences are so deep and permeating because they are literally a part of us, from us, in us. If you have not had the opportunity to process your own birth experience, these details can be triggering for some, so please tread lightly.
So much of my pregnancy and birth experience have been anything but standard. I wasn’t trying to become pregnant. It was a complete surprise in every possible sense of the word. I spent my first and second trimesters processing close to my heart and didn’t share this news with family and friends until around 20 weeks. Then just as I was really beginning to align with the coming changes, planning and putting pieces together and leaning into excitement and hopeful anticipation, our son decided to come unexpectedly early at the onset of a global pandemic.
This has been one of the hardest pieces of my experience to recount. It was rapid, wildly unexpected, on the tail end of so much stress and upheaval, and followed by an intense two-month stay in the NICU, which left little time or space to rest or process intentionally. Your mind and body are taken to such depths during labor and delivery that it’s difficult to comprehend or recount everything that transpires. I began the day of his arrival with a bowl of cereal and a chiropractic adjustment and ended it with a newborn in the NICU. These are some of life’s deepest dualities that deserve time and intention to process.
Pandemic murmurs were just beginning to take root in the states, and we felt the weight of it initially when the Air Force Academy (where my husband was stationed at the time) chose to send most of the cadets home and shut down most other operations at the end of February. This felt heavy, severe. Not something they would have chosen to do lightly. Restaurants, coffee shops, and other “non-essential” businesses soon followed on closures. I had begun to mourn the loss of my final months of freedom and normalcy before baby, no longer able to go to my gym or favorite coffee shops, see friends or family, or even feel safe going to the store, forced to stay home in my dwindling days of “just me”. We took a babymoon just before the pandemic came down in full force, but unfortunately it was rife with tension and stress and not at all the peaceful time of connection and final adventure for just the two of us that I had deeply hoped it would be.
I was supposed to be going home for a baby shower on March 22nd and decided in the wake of all of the recent closures and new social distancing recommendations that it should be cancelled. I wanted everyone safe, even though I truly wanted to take a trip home to see friends and family in my final months of pregnancy and finally felt in a place where I could celebrate with others. I had not been home since Christmas 2019, when I announced my pregnancy, and did not realize it would be an entire year before I’d be able to visit again. In hindsight, had I traveled to Missouri for this shower, it is highly likely I could have given birth while there.
That very same cancelled baby shower day, an otherwise normal Sunday, I began to feel a dull ache in my lower right side. At the time I thought that perhaps I had just done a little too much with my workout that day. It’s worth noting that I’d had a very smooth pregnancy with no known issues. I felt good throughout and the only thing of any concern was maintaining a close eye on my thyroid, which I did vigilantly with my midwife team. Monday rolled around and the ache continued on and off, still bothersome but not overall concerning. By Monday evening, however, it was keeping me awake at night, so I decided to reach out to my midwife to see what might be going on. She suspected it could be dehydration, but had me come in first thing Tuesday to just check things over. She did a pelvic check and thankfully I wasn’t dilated. After close monitoring for about an hour, my midwife confirmed that I was in fact having contractions. She recommended I go to the nearby hospital to continue to be monitored and said they would likely put me on IV fluid to rule out dehydration, as this was a common cause of early contractions. As a nutritional therapist, I take my hydration VERY seriously and although I doubted this was the case, I sincerely hoped it could be. I called my husband to come and meet me and cried in the car at the birth center for the first time since these pains started. It didn’t really hit me that I could be in labor, but I definitely knew that this shouldn’t be happening now, and a hospital was the last place I wanted to be during a bourgeoning pandemic.
I spent all afternoon on Tuesday, March 24th, in the hospital receiving two liters of IV fluid to see if that could help quell the contractions (my nurse also blew my veins twice, which left me with gnarly arm bruise battle scars). I still wasn’t dilated and there were no other signs of anything being amiss. Baby was active and his heart rate was good. It was recommended that I receive a steroid shot for baby’s lung development, “just in case” he decided to come early. At 32 weeks, lungs would be one of the biggest concerns with an early arrival, especially being born at a higher altitude. After receiving the IV fluids and steroid shot, I opted to go home and see how things panned out. I was to return the next afternoon to receive a second steroid shot for efficacy. I knew what to look for if things progressed further (most notably any bleeding) and went home.
I was awake most of the night with contractions. I remember some time around 1:30 am I was wide awake, pacing the floors while listening to “It Is Well With My Soul,” trying to catch moments of sleep on the couch in between contractions, and pleading with the Lord to please just make them stop. I started to keep a time log of contractions and at this point they were sporadic at best, but consistent and anywhere from 2-10 minutes apart. Any movement seemed to elicit a contraction. I couldn’t go from sitting to standing without having a contraction. I had spoken to some practitioner friends at this point, seeking advice on what could be done from a functional standpoint. I’d heard that some women had experienced early contractions like this for weeks on end until giving birth full term. I couldn’t fathom how to endure eight more weeks like this, but I also didn’t want the alternative of preterm labor. Even in these moments, with my body clearly communicating that it was changing the timeline, I could not comprehend that my son could be on his way. I could only focus on the present.
I had an appointment with my chiropractor first thing on Wednesday morning, the 25th. Between painful pauses in contractions I was able to get adjusted, hoping that maybe it could help halt any labor progression. Upon returning home, however, I found a little bit of spotting, which was one of the warning signs to watch for and required an immediate return to the hospital. My heart sank. My husband was preparing to head in to work, and I met him in our bedroom in tears and said we had to go to the hospital, words I never wanted to have to utter. Not exciting words of hopeful anticipation often uttered at the onset of a full term labor when you’re ready to meet your baby. Somehow we had the wherewithal to pack a “go” bag (although not sensibly, since I ended up with two sports bras and no fresh pants or shirts, but I did manage to throw in some snacks that would be lifesavers in the long run). Naturally with 8 weeks left to go, we didn’t have a hospital bag (birthing center bag) packed, and beyond that, I certainly didn’t have a plan B for a preterm hospital birth. On my list of questions to ask my midwife at an upcoming appointment, I had penciled in “signs of preterm labor,” but didn’t think it would really be pertinent since I had no intention of that happening to me.
When we arrived at the hospital we had to answer the newly implemented “Covid symptom” screening questions at the entrance. I remember the nurse asked where we were headed and then commented “you don’t look far enough along to be in labor.” This brought a new kind of tears to my eyes and added to the already heavy realization as I responded “I’m not.”
We reached the maternity ward and they checked me in. Another glorious pelvic assessment and by now, I was 2 cm dilated. I recall asking if there was any way things could “go back” at this point, as in become not dilated anymore (I hadn’t reached this part in my pregnancy book yet), and the sweet nurse gently laughed and said “nope, you’re in labor.” Even at this, the first real, definitive “baby is coming” statement, I still couldn’t fully comprehend it. In labor. I hadn’t even had the chance to anticipate how I’d feel when the time came, 8 weeks or so in the future, when the words “in labor” would be welcome, anticipated, timely.
The contractions were pretty intense and consistent, so it was difficult to process anything beyond just getting through each one. In hindsight, this demanding focus was such a blessing in disguise. I was moved from the triage room to a birthing suite at around 12 pm. I was still a couple of hours away from needing to get the second steroid shot, and because they wanted to delay active labor as long as possible until I could receive it, that meant I could not labor comfortably in any positions that would encourage him coming any sooner. I was given an antibiotic as I had tested GBS positive (more useful info on this here and potential options of alternative treatment) the day before, strapped into all of the uncomfortable monitors (two straps on the belly for monitoring baby and contractions, which also drastically limit movement), given an IV, and began the true journey into a hospital labor and delivery at exactly 32 weeks and 1 day pregnant.
Four days prior we had just virtually attended our first birthing class, an experience I desperately wanted in order to prepare for natural labor (for those looking, I highly recommend Hypnobabies. Even though we didn’t get to complete it, the foundation and preparation it provides is so incredible for a very present, peaceful labor and delivery). I had hired my doula, but our work together wouldn’t officially begin until 36 weeks.
At one point the NICU team came in and briefed us on what would happen when baby was born. I couldn’t tell you what was shared in this conversation, other than I knew they’d be taking my baby shortly after birth. There was an isolette brought in that would usher our newborn straight to the NICU. Since the birthing center was my complete “birth plan”, I quickly had my husband write down our non-negotiables. I wanted baby placed on my chest for as long as possible before he was taken away. I wanted delayed cord clamping after the placenta was delivered. I did not want him to receive some of the common interventions ushered at birth (these are personal decisions that warrant doing your own diligent research to make the right choice for you and your baby. I highly recommend the work of Evidence Based Birth for a wealth of incredible, unbiased information to help you make the right well-informed decisions for you and your baby).
In the midst of all of this, even in the throes of labor, in a sterile hospital room that was well outside of my plan and way too early, I wasn’t fearful. Not once did I fear for my son’s safety. Not once did I worry if he would be ok. Those weren’t even the kinds of questions I asked. I was so focused on getting through each contraction that I truly didn’t have the capacity to be fearful, and I believe this was an immense blessing. It was protective. I could only be present in those moments and I couldn’t think ahead to “what if?”
I recall hearing Daniel telling one of my family members on the phone “they say we’ll have a baby within 24 hours,” and it just seemed so surreal. We are having a baby. This little life that I’d worked so hard to comprehend was going to be here in our midst soon. Painfully early. My mind couldn’t fathom it, even though my body was sending the message loud and clear. Conversely, I also wasn’t able to feel as present as I had hoped. I didn’t feel connected with my son or my body. Everything was too abrupt, too soon.
A nurse came in at one point and recommended that I seriously consider receiving an epidural since we didn’t know how long I’d be laboring. This was something I very much wanted to avoid. I decided to forgo that path and opted out of any other pain interventions, including Tylenol. I labored uncomfortably on my back and side for what simultaneously felt like a lifetime and a brief blip. Time passes in the most surreal way when you’re in labor. Contractions were constant and consistent at this point, with just a brief respite in between. I was so grateful for a years-long yoga practice that truly taught me how to breathe deeply and effectively. Since I didn’t have any other strategies from the lost birthing class experience, this was one thing that really helped me to fall back on and engage with my body. Daniel was there, but I couldn’t really comprehend his presence. I could only be with each and every contraction. I remember looking out the large window with the most perfect view of Pike’s Peak and the front range, and with each contraction I’d try to focus on the mountains, visualizing myself at the top of the peak, far away from that room.
One strange aspect of this experience is that I really don’t have a timeline of events. I have when we checked in and when he was born, and everything that transpired in between is just what I can try to recall in hindsight. I don’t know when things really progressed, when I was fully dilated, what was considered active labor, anything. When it was all over, I asked the nurse if anyone kept a track record of events, and she said they don’t. I wanted something akin to a printout of the timeline of things so I could go back and remember and try to be retroactively present. Adding to the disconnect of this entire experience, everyone on the birth team was in masks, so I don’t even know what any of these women looked like who shared in the most intimate and life-changing experience of my life.
Daniel was on phone duty, letting friends and family know what was going on. I even took a couple of loving phone calls, friends and family offering prayers and support, although all I could focus on were the contractions. The wonderful midwife staff at the birthing center was also texting and offering support, which was such a huge blessing and really helped me feel more supported in what was so far outside of my plan. We texted my doula, whose work with us wasn’t to officially begin for another four weeks, and she so graciously offered to come if they would allow it. Sadly, new Covid protocols would only allow one person to be there. Even still, she texted her support and I was so grateful.
Thankfully, the mood in the room was calm. Even knowing this little guy was coming early, I was grateful that nothing felt fearful or extreme. It was mostly just Daniel and myself and one nurse throughout. When I was finally given the second steroid shot around 2 pm, I was allowed to move a little more freely. My nurse gave me the option of getting in the bath tub, which felt like a huge gift at such a time. It also helped things feel a little more like my desired birth center experience. I was only able to get in for a few minutes since the contractions were so intense and it just wasn’t as relaxing in the throes of labor as one would hope. After that I was able to be out of the bed and utilize a birthing ball. While sitting on the ball, I would lean onto the side of the bed while the nurse applied pressure to my hips during each contraction. It was at this point that I thought “I don’t know how long I can keep doing this. This could literally go on for hours.” Even though I was very much present and aware of the pain, I also simultaneously felt so disconnected from my body, almost just along for the ride as it was enduring this very new experience. I asked the nurse then if I could reconsider taking a little Tylenol, to which she kindly chuckled and said “That won’t do anything now.”
Not long after this, my water partially broke while I was on the ball. They had me get back into the bed and shortly after the OB came in to check me. Evidently my water had not fully broken, so she chose to go ahead and break it. I don’t know how dilated I was at this point. Let it be known that prior to these days, I had not had to endure even one pelvic exam. By this point in time I had received probably 6, and let me tell you, they are horrendous. A true, invasive blight to being a woman delivering a baby in a hospital. Something I could choose to forgo altogether at the birth center with a normal labor and delivery.
This is when things really progressed more rapidly. Suddenly the room filled with more masked nurses. Contractions still felt about the same intensity-wise, albeit closer together. I was instructed to lie on my side (I couldn’t tell you why, but I do remember lamenting in the lost birth center experience of being able to labor freely in whatever way felt comfortable and right for my body). I was told to let them know when I started to feel more of a downward pressure, and sure enough after a little while there was what felt like a sudden drop and a new sensation (hello, baby). Those infamous foot stirrups came out, and I was placed on my back to begin pushing (another thing I’d so wanted to avoid. Please do your own research into why this is one of the most inhibiting labor positions).
I remember maybe 4-5 pushes (could have been more or less) before the OB said that baby’s heart rate was dropping and she’d need to use the vacuum. I hadn’t done any research on vacuum-assisted birth, but I knew it was something I truly wanted to avoid as much as possible. The added challenge here, as I would later learn, is that preterm babies aren’t trying to be born. They’re pretty much just along for the ride, so there’s no assistance where they’re involved (thankfully Jude was in the proper head down position already). A full term baby is getting positioned and at least moving a little to help. With a preterm baby, mom has to do all of the heavy lifting/pushing. Add to that a labor position that impinges the pelvis and it was kind of the perfect struggle storm in getting him out. These pushes didn’t feel productive. In hindsight, I so wish I’d had the option to labor in different positions that would have allowed more of a relaxing of the muscles and opening of the hips and sacrum. Perhaps then a vacuum would not have been necessary. I asked the OB if I could try one more push before we had to use the vacuum. Everything I had went into that push, willing my body to be able to deliver my son on its own, but alas, it just wasn’t enough. I felt like I failed him and my body failed me. I remember one nurse, who I could only recognize by the eyes (again, masked avengers all around), putting her face right up next to me and encouraging me. She had the most peaceful demeanor and I was so appreciative of her presence when most of my other planned support avenues had been lost. The vacuum was then utilized and in the final push, it helped usher Jude into the world.
We had not yet shared his name with anyone except the labor and delivery staff. It was surreal to hear it spoken with him in the room for the first time. He was immediately placed on my chest while I marveled at the extreme juxtaposition between the intense throes of labor pains and the sudden and immediate relief. Once he was out the pain stopped. One nurse called out his birth time at 6:59 pm. This too seemed surreal, as it had felt like both an eternity laboring and yet also very brief. I was craning to try to see his sweet face while a nurse wiped him down (more on vernix caseosa preservation here, another piece I had to relinquish). I don’t remember if he was crying. The OB asked Daniel if he wanted to cut the cord, and I remember wishing he could have more time attached to that precious life force. Under different circumstances, I would have advocated harder for this. I wanted the placenta delivered and no longer pulsating before baby was detached from it, but they had a different timeline to adhere to, and I recognize the care taken in light of a preterm baby. This all-too-brief moment meeting my son was so surreal, a moment I’d hardly had the opportunity to anticipate. A moment 8 weeks too early.
Both delivery and NICU staff were shuffling around, so much was happening at once. I told Daniel that I wanted him with Jude at all times, and so after just a brief moment meeting my son, unable to even see his sweet face, he was ushered to the NICU and the room cleared.
God bless the sweet nurse who had the forethought to take these pictures for us. I am so grateful.
The following hours were some of the most surreal moments I have ever experienced, and likewise they’ve been some of the most difficult to process. They’ve been where I’ve realized there is significant mourning of experiences lost and trauma to process. While Daniel went with Jude to the NICU, I delivered the placenta and the OB began to stitch me up. I was put on Pitocin as a standard protocol to help with any potential excessive bleeding (more on this here, additional information I wish I’d had beforehand). Mid-stitch, the OB had to rush to another delivery, so I was left feet-up in the stirrups, easily in the most vulnerable state ever, partially stitched and shaking all over from the Pitocin while she attended another birth.
God bless the rush of endorphins and serotonin that hit post-birth, because I was able to be in great spirits during this most inconvenient experience, staring at the ceiling and trying with all my might to comprehend what had just happened. My baby was gone, my husband gone with him, and I was stuck here, waiting. I remember thinking “what has just happened? No one is even here to see me.” When something is so vast and surreal, the comprehension of it is elusive at best. There was a schedule shift change here and thankfully the sweet nurse that came on stayed with me and chatted. Finally the OB returned an hour and a half later and finished stitching me up. Then it was more waiting. I had to lie on my back and wasn’t allowed up while my nurse would press on my abdomen periodically to assess bleeding. Nothing was outside of the norm here, it was just a waiting game of following protocols.
After a couple of hours I was finally allowed to get up and use the bathroom. All I wanted was to get to Jude as soon as possible. I had been texting Daniel for pictures and updates. My first real glimpse of my son was via my phone, and his little face was covered by a CPAP machine (pic below). This was how I learned his birth measurements: 3 lbs, 4 oz, 15 inches long. It all just felt so disjointed. I had to wait even longer while my nurse helped get another mom settled in to her room, and since staff was pared back, again thanks to Covid, I waited for two more hours alone in the delivery suite, desperate to see my son, texting family and friends the news of this most magnanimous life change, an abrupt juxtaposition of the recently shared “surprise, I’m pregnant,” to now “surprise, he’s here.”
Thinking back on and revisiting these moments, I’ve found a lot of intentional mourning has needed to take place. I read or see others’ birth stories and announcements and realize all over how deep it runs for me. I feel the depth and weight of it all come bubbling up, and I try to grasp and sit with it. The moments that repeat themselves the most are the moments immediately after he was born. Usually this is a beautiful time of bonding with your newborn. You get to marvel at their sweet face, poring over their features, counting fingers and toes and absorbing their newness. Usually you’re there with your spouse and/or family, reveling in the new life and congratulating mom on a job well done. Usually you get to have your celebratory post-birth feast after the marathon of labor.
I wish I could have had my husband there. Even though I wanted him to be with our baby, I also wanted him by my side to help me make sense of all that had just happened, and to just be a placeholder and presence for what I was feeling and trying to feel. Instead, I was completely alone. There was no one there to say “Well done, mama. You did it. You brought life. You are amazing. I see you.” No one to bring me nourishment. I had my nurse get me a snack bar out of our hospital bag, the first and only sustenance I’d had since some cereal first thing that morning. As I mentioned, in these moments I had the protection of post-delivery hormones keeping me in amazing spirits. In the following days and months, reliving these moments has been heavy and sorrowful. I’ve come to recognize it as trauma. This wasn’t at all how it was supposed to be. I missed those first special, priceless moments of meeting my son. I’ve heard countless mothers recount that precious experience when you first meet your baby and the rush of love and overwhelming joy and happy tears. I didn’t get that. Our introduction was so brief. I could scarcely comprehend his skin on mine before he was taken away. I couldn’t see his face. I don’t recall if he was crying. I couldn’t grasp how he was here. How moments before he had been safely tucked inside. I wondered if he was able to feel me in return, sense my presence, comprehend that I was his and he was mine before being ushered into a synthetic protective plastic environment that was not me.
Finally, five long hours after he was born, I was able to go to the NICU around midnight. It’s impossible to articulate the anticipation of heading down that hallway to really “meet” my son for the first time, not fully knowing what I’d be walking into. Jude was in his isolette and on a CPAP machine with a feeding tube coming out of his mouth, so I still couldn’t really see his face or absorb his features. He was wearing a little hat with a blood stain on it from a small cut thanks to his vacuum extraction. His very first injury inflicted during his entrance into the world. This was an injury to my mama heart, too.
Thankfully I was able to hold him and let him feel my embrace. I told him I was his mom. I couldn’t even comprehend this tiny, perfect human. So much had happened in such a short amount of time. How was I holding my son? How was I supposed to absorb this? What should I even say? He was so small but so strong. All three pounds of his tiny body was perfect. Everything was there and intact. All fingers and toes accounted for. Breath in his lungs, albeit assisted, and a perfectly beating heart. Even then, he was desperately trying to get that machine off of his little face, letting us know his preferences.
I had to return to my room for the night, but thankfully Daniel stayed with Jude. The NICU set up here was impeccable, and he had his own room complete with a little fold-out couch and bathroom for parents to use. When I finally got to my room, sleep was elusive. I knew I needed to pump to try to elicit the proper response for my body to know that milk was needed, but no one was there to show me how. I remember catching a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror, seeing the reflection I’ve always seen and yet also someone wholly different. Hours before my body had been carrying life. It now carried the scars of an unexpected delivery. A huge part of me was now missing, lying in an isolette far away from me, breathing assisted air, not at all where he was supposed to be. Eventually I let my body slip into desperately needed sleep around 2 am. I’d soon be waking up to an entirely new world.
So much of this experience has been mourning the loss of what wasn’t. I am a firm believer that giving difficult emotions due space and time to be felt makes way for a clearer and more purposeful understanding of ourselves and our experiences. The path of processing is not linear. Things continue to pop up that I didn’t realize were there, that might have been unknowingly repressed, lurking in corners until my mind has been able to bring them to light. Sometimes it can feel like letting the air out of a pressurized bottle: you can pop the lid and let a little fizz out at a time, but must quickly put the lid back on to avoid all of the contents exploding at once and making a mess of things. The sooner we can learn to intentionally lean in to life’s more difficult emotional experiences, safely letting out some of the pressure as we’re ready, the sooner we can utilize them in healthy, wholesome ways: as teachers, gauges for growth, glimpses into our deeper selves.
What a true labor (pun intended) of self love it is to give yourself permission to intentionally revisit these spaces for sake of processing and healing. Leaning in to difficult emotions does not equate depression or complacency. It is important to know the distinction, but there can be space to feel through hard things without it becoming all-encompassing.
In the days that followed Jude’s arrival, I never ever thought that I would miss being pregnant. I didn’t miss the aching joints or poor sleep. I didn’t miss daily trying to contend with a changing body while fighting my own inner dialogue rooted in a skewed body image. I missed the fact that he should have still been inside for two more months. I mourned that I wasn’t able to give him those final weeks of safety and nourishment and growth. I missed our intimate conversations, just him and I, sharing this vessel of my body. I missed the time we had left to prepare, physically, mentally, and emotionally. I missed feeling those little kicks and jumps that meant he was safe and well and tucked inside. In the days following his birth, I would touch my belly and try to fathom how just days prior, he had been there. He should have still been there.
The nuance of mourning is altogether complex. It encompasses a “both, and” mentality. You can both rejoice in the health and safety of your new child while also mourning the loss of all you had planned for their arrival. You can marvel in the body that brought your child into the world while also mourning the changes it had to endure, or the fact that it didn’t lead you to a full term birth, in my case. You can both fear and revere. I could see my son as a gift while also mourning the unexpectedness of it all, the loss of freedom and life as I knew it. I can rejoice in retaining a mostly natural labor and delivery while mourning the loss of my desired empowered birth center experience. I firmly believe that it is in this expanse of understanding our experiences, allowing space for grace to flow and leaning in to the complexity of it that we can truly process. When we neglect to honor all aspects of our life experiences, good, bad, in between, and we attempt to just pass go into the more favorable, “acceptable,” pieces, we’re truly missing so much of the depth and value of it. We’re neglecting huge pieces of ourselves that also demand to be felt and seen.
I’ve had to step into mourning not having my son with me immediately after birth. Mourning the loss of those precious first moments as a new family. Mourning the loss of being seen, tended to as a new mother. Mourning the loss of a postpartum healing period in the comfort of my own home. Mourning the loss of visitors and meals brought to us thanks to a global pandemic. Mourning the loss of the birth experience that I had so intentionally planned and advocated for. Mourning a vacuum-assisted birth that left a small scar on my son’s head, a constant visual reminder of his less-than-ideal arrival. In the same moment I can mourn the lost experience and also breathe him in with unfathomable gratitude. This is beautiful nuance. Both, and. Space for full depth of feeling through. It’s never perfect and is certainly poignantly painful, but also lends such a beautiful and more intentional presence and awareness.
He’s wonderfully amazing. He’s miraculous. I could know this to be true while also giving myself the dignity of processing through the difficult. In doing so, I was able to arrive more fully to a place of appreciation and awe. When faced with comments while I was pregnant like “oh but it will just be the best thing,” it was never that I didn’t believe it. It was that in those moments, it didn’t honor or align with where I was, and that was perfectly ok. This is the beauty of nuance. All of my apprehensions have also been true, and in giving them space when they first arose, acknowledging that it would be painful and hard and refining and different, I’ve been able to show up more fully and lean more deeply into the duality of life as we now know it.
Click here for the final piece of Jude’s birth story, our NICU experience.
For more info on preparing for a natural pregnancy and birth experience, I highly recommend these resources: