There was the unrelenting exhaustion from nearly four hours of relentlessly pushing after days-long labor. There was grief over the nurse who was on her phone instead of by my side, and whose idiocy led her to say, “If you don’t hold your breath and push right, you’re going to end up with a c-section.”1 There were feelings of entrapment, claustrophobia, abandonment, and submission to the sensation that I was leaving earth to get my daughter, and that I might not make it through whatever this crossing of the threshold was. There was a botched epidural, caused by the anesthesiologist mistakenly puncturing the membrane surrounding my spinal cord, resulting in three weeks where sitting or standing upright meant magnitudes upon magnitudes of immediate, crushing pain. There was sheer terror warped by a wicked sense of relief at my doctor’s nonchalant announcement of the ultimatum, a way out, a cesarean section.2

And then there was the recovery. Muddied by inadvertent erasure—“at least the baby is healthy!”—and competitive suffering—“I had it way worse than you, and with no help at all!”—and people simply skirting around the invitation to listen because they thought they had to say something and didn’t know what to say.

I don’t remember how long it took for me to be able to return to my breath, a full breath. For a long time it was usurped by short breaths, half-breaths, “hold your breath”s.

I also don’t remember how long it took until someone sat with me in healing—listening to how I journeyed through the unexpected while exploring what the experience meant for me. That someone was Pam England. I needed the co-regulation of wise people, and she lovingly offered it. I did not want to gloss things over; I wanted to reflect and seek out the wisdom from birth. Pam listened past the rattling of facts in my debrief for deeper meaning, she helped me dig to the pain that was the story beneath the facts, and she reminded me to trust myself again. To no longer carry the heaviness of the experience, I had to learn how to process the story I took home with me, and I had to rediscover my intuition and reclaim my instincts. Birth Story Medicine became a vital component of that recovery, and I am happy such a service exists. I wish more women were honest with themselves and others about how “to be able to give birth, you have to go to this other realm,” as Domino Kirke-Badgley put it, and to “do inner work. Find out who this person giving birth is. If I was to talk to anyone about giving birth, I would say – make sure that the person giving birth is a grown-up. It’s about self-knowing. That will help you get through that threshold, that initiation. Not that everyone needs to go to therapy, it’s not about therapy as much as it’s about having that curiosity to find out about yourself.”

If I had to go back to preparing for my first birth, I would have liked to get to know myself without outside noise. I would have also done the following:

— Assemble a trustworthy birth team.

I paid great attention to choosing the right OBGYN, and did not shy away from advocating for myself during pregnancy, asking questions to gage my comfort level with next steps and to test if my provider was aligned with what mattered to me, and even switching providers during pregnancy because it was my prerogative. But I wish I didn’t scoff at building a stronger support system based on expertise by way of hiring a doula as a guide to navigating the process within a hospital setting; of course hindsight is 20/20, but I think I may have benefitted from having someone in my corner who knew how to advocate for me during labor and give me reassurance and just hold me; most of my time in labor at home and at the hospital, I was operating in the dark, and it was overwhelming and scary.

— For decision-making, follow BRAIN.

(“What are the benefits? What are the risks? What are the alternatives? What is your intuition saying? What if we do nothing?")

— Protect your space.

I wish I did not tell people/loved ones I was going into labor/going to the hospital/etc. The excitement of letting them know ‘it was go time’ quickly turned into total stress, and me or my husband having to incessantly field questions and concerns, provide updates when none existed, and it was unnecessary given our stretched mental and emotional bandwidths. I would also have a conversation about default preferences post-birth (for example, yes/no for visitors at the hospital?)

— Sit with your fears beforehand.

I did not grow up in a household where birth was overtly treated as sacred. My grandma had her horror stories to share; my mom had her ‘I birthed a 10+ pound baby without any epidural nonsense’ banner to wave; and ads for pads/menstruation, birthing scenes, and the like were critiqued by the women around me as taboo. I think somewhere along the way I internalized external noise (regarding fears/awkwardness/pain/goriness) and developed an inability to see the beauty of birth. Probably the only time in my life I didn’t do my homework was when I found myself deep in labor frantically downloading Pop That Mumma hypno-birthing videos the way a panicked student scrambles for an ounce of dignity during a cold-call. I did not sit with my fears as birth prep, and the only time I confronted them was when I was plopped atop an operating table with arms outstretched to a T and under the cold scrutiny of surgery lights. I wager there’s better timing.

— Avoid giving birth on your back, and follow your own body’s urge to push.

“Women in the United States are still giving birth in the supine position and are restricted in how long they can push and encouraged to push forcefully by their caregivers. Research does not support these activities.”

— Prenatally, pay the utmost attention to planning postpartum support.

I wish I worked through my expectations for postpartum care and as a default, leaned into outsourcing and investing in support. The dichotomy I experienced the first night home alone was unmatched—superhuman strength at my most depleted. I would instead prioritize having some form of assistance. (Overnight doula, daytime doula, mother’s helper etc.) I would also prioritize having homemade, prepared meals at the ready. It took some rewiring for me to realize that if having one’s village means it’s one that’s paid, that’s totally okay, and it could even become a vital part of learning how to properly care for oneself and others.

On a similar note, if I could go back to my maiden self, I wish someone would have advised me to show up for new moms; too easily we get away with the excuse that we simply don’t know or don’t understand or don’t remember or don’t care what it’s like to be in the trenches.

Plainly put, it’s lonely.

The well-meaning question, “What can I help with?” makes it lonelier. It renders useless and lost the opportunity for connection. It shuts the tiny crack where light can get in. It places the mental burden on the already burdened gal.

As a new mother, I want to build the foundation for becoming the nurturer I needed; I’d like to develop and retain an instinctive, knee-jerk reaction to news that a friend has given birth. So far, I am choosing to start here:

Give the mother your time and attentiveness, and hold them, really really hold them. This looks like dropping off food and hydration at the door, watching the baby while they shower or nap, doing invisible work, inviting them to tell me how they really are.

And if I were to create a nurturing postpartum care package for the maidens in my life who were becoming mothers, this is what I would lovingly consider including:

The book, Birthing from Within, by Pam England

The book, Growing Together, by Carson Meyer

Childbirth Education

Silverettes

Pajamas

Laboring Gown

Kindle

Audiobook subscription

Antidote to hospital light torture

Postpartum meal delivery (consider Tartine sourdough bread, Fond Broth, Chiyo, Organic Oren, and Methodology if not homemade)

In-home massage

Pillow

Sheepskin

Cleaning

Frida Mom Kit

Herbal sitz bath

Belly wrap

Let’s be accountability buddies together for the new moms in our lives, and let’s pay it forward. And if ever you want to chat, my ears are open and attentive.

In not so good news, I didn’t expect to be hit so hard by swimmer’s ear (in both ears) this month — the pain was debilitating, I gave up on trying to find seating/sleeping positions that would ease the sensation of walking through the world submerged underwater, and it was a relentless ordeal. Does an ear massage exist? I oscillated between …

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Little joys this week included going on a walk to enjoy the sensory delight of feet on grass and nose in book.

Stars aligned for an impromptu dinner date with G in the middle of the week, and I was pleasantly surprised by the liveliness of the city on a random Wednesday night during my awkward procession to the table at a local dimly lit quas…

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Most in my circle are familiar with the gargantuan, mesmerizing cl…

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In Fyodor Dostoevsky we trust —

“I love the sticky leaves in Spring, the blue sky — that’s all it is. It’s not a matter of intellect or logic, it’s loving with one’s inside . . . .

Here are seven links to bits of the world I explored this week, shared with the hope that you will find them to be an in…

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In the span of less than 24 hours, I was the recipient of news that three of my friends are pregnant (one with her first, two with their second), and I am over the moon for them. I also woke up to a text from a dear friend from my Cambridge study abroad days telling me she is moving to Los Angeles for a year, and I am excited to get insight …

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The open window near my desk is ushering in sounds of children playing tag on the olive-tree laced lawn while field tripping to the museum next door, my neighbor playing the guitar and singing Pink Floyd (!) and Simon & Garfunkel from memory (with commendable effort), and the buzzing of construction work. The day these sounds irritate me rat…

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Here is what I am savoring, reading, and watching; and seven thin[g/k]s bookmarked and explored this week.

Savoring my weekly croissant dates with Gigi, my 18-month-old dictator

Revisiting old stomping grounds like coffee shops and nei…

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Thank you for reading this dispatch of my weekly bookmarks. If time and disposition allow, please subscribe and/or leave me a note below!

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I’m reporting today from having twirled my way into one of my first ‘mom friend’ dates. I have had to juggle the fact that I am reserved by nature with the realization that I have been desperate for ‘parent friends,’ and having bit the bullet and asked for a fellow mom’s phone number after Gigi’s music class one week, this week we wal…

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In this letter, you’ll find some of my observations from this week, what I’m reading and watching and consuming, and things and thoughts and bits and bobs I’ve explored and savored. Thank you for being here as I dispatch my bookmarks!

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Let’s catch up as I dispatch a few things I have bookmarked this week. I am admiring the floral arrangements of my neighborhood coffee shop …

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She certainly meddled, and …

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Happy last week of January. As a warm welcome to new subscribers who have connected with Boundless Being this month, I’m considering doing a little Q&A. I recently came across my newsletter’s About Me page, which has flown under my radar despite apparently being a fixture here for a while now; but I’d love to more personally answer any quest…

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Some things I’m calibrating this month:

• Bending my understanding of time with these writing prompts —open them at your own peril of productivity.

• Experimenting with color — postpartum starved me of a wardrobe I can be proud of, and looking back for over a year now, I’ve incorporated no color in my clothing choices. I’m still too ch…

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I hope you enjoy my bookish notes below. I watched Hamnet back in December in Los Angeles, and my reading journey took place over the course of a few evening…

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There’s a scene from Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein, in which Victor teaches the creature, “Sunlight. The sun is . . . the sun is life.” Much goes on between the earnest, innocent look of awe the creature exhibits then and in the final scene, where the shattered being looks to the same sun with the same eyes. Despite the wretched chaos, the outcast still looks to the sun. We all do when we hope.

Whatever chaos ensnared us this year, may we, too, always look to the sun.

Here is a dispatch of 7 thin[g/k]s bookmarked and explored this week. Under the paywall, you’ll find: Parisian shopfronts true to bookish form, the moment Tchaikovsky touched heaven, an adaptation of A Yard of Sky, embracing the beginner’s mind, letting someone else pick your next read, an invitation to go outside, and a Jessie Buckley narration I invite you to read alongside me.

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Hello to the summer solstice. As someone who’ll take rain and gloom any day over sweltering and overbearing heat, I am trying to welcome the summer season without betraying my excitement for autumn. Cillian Murphy’s summer sesh playlist helps.

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