A Body Not My Own
How pregnancy stirred up my past trauma
I found out I was pregnant in the Fall of 2018. Right as the leaves were changing colors, as they were gearing up to release and let go, so was I.
My husband and I had been wanting and trying for a baby for a good portion of the year. Long enough for it to feel like work, as I diligently began to track ovulation, discharge, and temperatures. Long enough for sex to become a bit boring, a little bit monotonous, instrumental, and even frustrating. Long enough for me to begin to question if it would happen or if this deep feeling I had been trying to bury — might be true.
The deep feeling that I worked very hard not to give over much of my conscious attention to was fear. Fear that I would not be able to have a baby. Fear that my body was somehow broken and damaged. Fear that there was something inherently wrong with me.
When I saw the two lines on the pregnancy stick, the fear didn’t go away. Instead, it stayed lingering, knocking at the edge of my awareness. It was as if it became background noise. A sound in the distance that you can’t shut off. Instead, you just learn how to adapt and work around it. The fear that I experienced wasn’t a panic-like fear or even a worry drenched in thoughts. Instead, it was a felt sense of fear, a fear that hovered too long in the air around me, a fear that laced the back of my throat, a fear that I had known for a long time.
This fear and heightened awareness had always been there and became especially loud when coming face to face with anything related to my body.
A body that at a young age was violated.
As a child, I learned that bodies could get hurt. That bodies could be vulnerable. That bodies could be used in a way that made me powerless. That bodies could experience the sense of being broken, of being bad, of being damaged, and no good. That bodies could be seized and no longer known as our own.
Growing up, my relationship with my body became complicated. An outcome that typically happens after sexual trauma. As I grew, I never felt fully safe to inhabit my body, for the darkness and hurt that it experienced without consciously knowing but sensing — was too scary. So I did what most learned to do, I stayed away. I developed coping patterns that went along with the feeling of unease, unsettled static energy, and shame, for in my mind, I knew I wasn’t doing anything bad; I just felt bad.
For me, this belief system was not set in stone. It was harvested for many years, finally laid to rot as I grew older; once I learned about feminism, abuse, systems of power, the patriarchy, self-love, rage, empowerment, embodiment, and healing. I dived in, in every which way I could. I began to understand what was happening, I began writing, learning, expanding, and connecting with others. I began seeing the truth: I was not broken, I was not powerless, I was surviving what had happened to me.
Although I had mended a lot of wounds, the experience of getting pregnant seemed to invite the old fear back in. The fear that my body was once again broken and damaged.
It turns out that this is a very common fear that pregnant survivors share. Something I knew nothing about yet felt deeply.
Once I began to enter a new space with my body, a space of preparing it to house and grow a child, a space that was inherently vulnerable and full of risk, a space that did not feel safe as it would call for me to sit with the reality of things being outside my control while also happening to me — all created an entry point for my old beliefs system to rush in.
My body was broken.
My body was bad.
My body was damaged.
This belief system, which operated in the background for most of my life was present again, and the emotional landscape neared… Tapping at the window. More importantly, it was the feeling itself; the feeling of shame, the sensations of constriction binding my throat, my chest, my stomach. Those sensations that spoke in pressure and unease. Those sensations that tried their hardest to hide away the truth.
My truth is that trust is complicated, especially in a body that has had to relearn it many times. A body that now was having to face the reality that it would once again be called to re-learn it, but in a different way. In a way, that had to do with the relationship I had with my own body, not how others would hold it. This relationship was moving towards growing a baby in this body that was about to navigate very new physical, emotional, and spiritual changes, all of which would be happening inside my body, that inevitably would feel quite different.
I wasn’t able to put names to what I was experiencing for a long time. Actually, it wasn’t until I neared childbirth that I actually began to understand all of the ways in which being a survivor of sexual trauma impacted my experience of becoming a mother.
And that, in fact -
My body was not broken.
My body was not bad.
My body was not damaged.
And instead, recognizing that this voice was left over from the trauma that I had endured. It was left over by how I was attempting to make sense of my experience and the experience of being in my body — a body that for many years did not feel like my own.
Becoming pregnant, moving through pregnancy, childbirth, and postpartum are not inherently traumatic. Yet, the experience of fear, losing control, and my autonomy, while having a body feel as though it is no longer yours — can stir up old memories, old belief systems, and ways of protection that may have been present in the past.
Over the years, I have sat with many women whose stories are like mine. Women who have carried the same narratives, women who have moved towards becoming mothers who didn’t understand what was happening to them and why the experience wasn’t just “blissful and full of joy.” But instead, terrifying as they battled feelings of powerlessness and loss.
What I learned (and am still learning and relearning and relearning):
When in doubt, slow down and return to the breath.
Do not believe the belief systems, even though they are so convincing, but become more curious about them.
Sensations are invitations for deeper acknowledgment, deeper truths, and deeper healing.
It is not your fault if you find yourself somewhere on this page and had no idea what was happening to you — we do not know how to handle and give names to the experiences that pregnant survivors face, and you are not alone because of what is missing in our culture.
And most importantly-
Our bodies are not broken.
Our bodies are not bad.
Our bodies are not damaged.
Some Current Happenings:
Birth and The Pen is coming to a close this week. After eight profound weeks of sitting with women writing their birth stories, I can honestly say that I am blown away, once again, by the birthing body, by motherhood, by all that is often carried alone, and by the pure magic and healing that happens when we come together in intentional space. As the series comes to a close, I am gearing up to offer it again in late fall. If you are interested in joining the waitlist, you can find more information here.
Here are some words that have been shared about the group. I got the chance to read and sit with them last week. Through sitting with them, I had to really practice allowing myself to take in and receive the positive words, the kindness, and the real impact we can have on one another. This has been a constant practice for me — goodness, it can be hard. So grateful that I am learning to stretch, for the connection, and for the trust in the power of telling and sharing our stories of when we became mothers.
If you are interested in writing your birth story, you can find more information here. I offer this both in groups and individual settings.
Wow, thank you for sharing about this so openly and vulnerably. Fear is such a hard thing to navigate, especially when it comes to motherhood, so thank you for being open.