The Spirit Wound

The very real impacts of birth trauma.

My eyes were open because I remember how the room looked as I laid very still in my bed. Although I couldn’t tell you if it was day or night, the details of where I was in relation to where my husband and newly born child were feel as though they will be etched in my mind forever. It’s pain now there because it was not how it was supposed to be, a body remembrance of what didn’t get to happen. As I remained there motionless and halted in time, my eyes seemed to be the only thing that were still in use. Every other part of me seemed to be gone.

My voice — hidden.

My ability to move my body — frozen.

My heart — broken.

Yet, even immobilized, I still could feel everything.

The cries from my few-day-old son pierced through my body like a bolt of lightning. As I close my eyes now, it is as if I can travel back to that moment of pure helplessness, for I could hear him waking up every cell in my body — and could do nothing.

Weeks before, I laid in the same bed trying to envision what it would be like when my son arrived. In the vision, everything was love and light — not easy by any means — even in my visions, I try to get them as realistic as possible, but never could I have imagined the darkness of desperation that would have engulfed me.

The shock that was racing through my bones came after a traumatic birth. A birth that not only hollowed out my body, but also my spirit.

The helplessness, the sorrow, the grief, the fear all raced through my veins and didn’t stop after my belly was stitched up. Instead, it kept on pulsating, and pulsating, and pulsating, as I laid there silently screaming.

His cries felt both so unfamiliar to me, but also so deeply known. Even though I couldn’t get my limbs to move, my body knew what to do. It needed to jump up, it needed to rock him, to feed him, to whisper I love you and hymn in his ears. It needed to tell him that we were going to be okay and that we were going to get through this. It needed to talk him through what was happening. It needed to move slowly and introduce him to the world. And at the very, very least — it needed to hold him.

But the pain from the surgery and the pain from the trauma kept me lying there in bed, just helplessly witnessing someone else doing all of the things that I so desperately needed to do — but couldn’t.

My sweet husband was incredible. He answered every cry, changed every diaper, and brought him to me in the moments when I was able to move just enough to sit up. Yet, the trapped feeling that was living in my body was only known to me. It was only sucking the air out of me. It was only making what felt like the most shattering hole in me during the time when all I wanted was the entire use of my heart.

Though it wasn’t a loss, I tried to plead with myself. I had a child, a baby. He was here, all the waiting, all the wondering, all the hoping, all the processing, all the preparing — he was finally here.

And now I was not. Now, I was the mystery.

Will I return? When? How? Who will I be? How will I put the pieces back together? How will this impact him? How will I let go of this pain? How will I heal and also learn to mother at the same time?

This is Maternal Mental Health Awareness Month. A cause that, if you have been reading along, is quite near and dear to my heart. As I scrolled through the very many posts, articles, and essays covering a range of topics from postpartum anxiety to postpartum PTSD, I couldn’t help but see myself and so many others written in the statistics.

And even though I feel well-versed in understanding the many complicated and not-so-complicated factors that contribute to up to 45% of new mothers experiencing some level of birth trauma — I still want to scream…

What the fuck.

The mystery of where I went and the answers to my questions eventually seeped through the darkness — at least enough for me to begin to integrate what happened when I gave birth to my child and began the journey of healing. Yet, I know there is still so much more to do. I also know so many more women need support who are feeling alone in their experience and grief-filled spirits.

Some of the most painful parts of experiencing birth trauma for me were having to somehow confront the most painful moments that were also coupled with what was supposed to be the most joyous. This isolating contradiction had its way with me, as I whispered over and over, I just don’t understand what happened.

The trauma tried to tell me that my body failed. That my body was not able to do the thing that it was made to do. It took me many years to begin to understand that it was, in fact, the system that failed me — not my body. And that it is the system that continues to fail so many others who never get the holding and care that they need and deserve.

I often think about those early days of postpartum, me lying in my bed, still trying to weave together the light and love that I was so seeking and knew was there. The guilt that rests in my chest for not being able to move toward my son due to the emergency surgery and the frozen state I was in — still haunts me. Though I know now it was never my fault, and we did the best we could.

My child eventually made it to my arms. My body eventually began to physically heal. I eventually learned how to change his diapers and do all of the things that I couldn’t do in those early days. Yet, the emotional and spirit wound continued to be open for quite some time.

A huge part of my own healing has been the honor of being able to sit with other women’s birth stories, and what I know now is that healing is quite possible but very hard to do alone and in the shadows.

With the rise in birth trauma, there has also been more exposure to the topic, which leaves me feeling hopeful because the plaguing scream still persists…

What the fuck.

Our mothers deserve better.

Our birthing bodies deserve better.

Our families deserve better.

Our children deserve better.