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Postpartum
It’s 4 p.m. I’ve tried leaving the house with her twice and failed.
She keeps wanting the boob but then rejects it after just a few seconds. My partner and I call it the “hora de adolescente“—her teenage hour. An understatement, considering this part of the day, when she doesn’t know what she wants, often lasts three hours.
But today is different. Today, I’m much more anxious about it.
It’s the second time since she was born that my partner has had to go to the office instead of working from home. My lunch date, who was supposed to help me make sure I eat today, fell through. I‘m alone. And I feel alone.
As she’s struggling on my breast, the fight that makes me feel so helpless, I well up. Another day with tears. There have been so many since I’ve had her.
And a thought keeps entering my mind, slowly creeping up from my subconscious, ready to be felt, seen, and overthought. It feels old and deeply seated, but appears in a new light now that she‘s here.
“I‘m not enough.”
There it is. The belief that kept my anxiety at an uncomfortable simmer all day.
Am I able to comfort her and tend to her needs when I’m alone with her? Can I deal with all of this without my partner sharing the load?
What if I’m not enough for her?
I want to promise her that I‘ll do my best to meet her needs. I promise her that, at least, I‘ll try.
I try to remind myself that I can’t possibly be the only new mom who has felt this way. It helps soften the blow.
Today, 40 days postpartum, the weight of having to “get the hang of it” feels heavy.
And while the circumstances of my partner going back to work are pressuring me into being ready to handle all of it by myself, I try to remind myself that this isn’t a job for one person. It was never meant to be.
And I think of all the other moms that are doubting themselves in this very moment. There surely must be someone out there who feels the same as I do…Right?
Birth
“Woman must be the pioneer in this turning inward for strength.” ~ Anne Morrow Lindbergh
The other day, a friend asked me about my birth story.
I gave her the gist and mix in some details that stayed with me.
Like what I said during pregnancy—that I’m not afraid enough of birth and that it’ll surprise me how intense it is—turned out to be true.
Or how I boosted my oxytocin doing things I love during the first phase of contractions: going for a walk in the snow with my partner, baking banana bread as a snack for the midwives, and dancing salsa.
I shared with her how I needed to cut out all distractions and go inward: snapping at my partner for typing too loudly, listening to the same meditation on loop, and demanding an eye mask to not be distracted by the flashlight of the midwife checking my progress.
I tell her about losing my perception of time: being surprised about the sun rising and not knowing what had happened when or in which order—because it didn’t matter.
I talk about the physical sensations of feeling her move back and forth in the birth canal with every contraction, the pressure when my water broke, and the pain when she crowned. I remember how, at one point, my body fell into a deep state of rest, almost sleep, in between contractions, making me forget I was in labor.
I recall having her on my belly, not knowing yet that she’s a girl. Being in my own world, still tripping—just me, my body, and my baby. Now, on the other side of my belly.
I tell her how I lost too much blood when my placenta came out and how I felt a shift in the atmosphere as the midwives started panicking, then reacting, then finally stopping the bleeding.
When I’m done, my friend says how it was perhaps important for me to birth alone, without any help.
In the following days, I keep thinking about her words.
I did need to go inward, to retreat into the cave, as they say, to bring her earthside. But I also needed my partner to be by my side, to support me, even if I couldn’t always connect with him. And I did need the midwives to feel safe and held, too.
But there is, since birth, a fear of being alone in all of this. That notion that my partner won’t ever be able to understand what I am going through because fatherhood and motherhood are so different. The realization that everyone has full enough lives as it is and may not be able or willing to be part of our village.
And it makes me wonder if other new mamas feel the same.
Pregnancy
Thinking back on my pregnancy, I remember how different each trimester felt in my body, mind, and heart.
I remember how amazed I was by my body each day—its ability to grow life, to make magic. I was constantly in awe, both by what my body was doing and how it was handling this big task. Its innate knowing how to be pregnant, which allowed me to do yoga and ride my bicycle until the very end.
Of course, I recall the difficult parts, too. The pain in my SI joint that kept coming and going for a couple of months, not recognizing my body in the second trimester and grieving its changes, or the insomnia that I assumed was preparing me for sleepless nights.
I think about how tender it felt to have this little secret only my partner and I knew about growing inside of me. How we waited to see if the pregnancy was viable after having waited to become pregnant for a year and a half.
And I think about how difficult it was to let people in on it—to share this little being with the world, opening up the channel for emotions, thoughts, and fantasies of others. And to feel this transformation of my identity take place already during pregnancy, as I had to let go of clients to shift my attention from my work inwards toward myself and my baby.
But when I listen to my heart, I notice that I feel proud. I was able to listen to my gut when it came to which medical checkups to choose, which care providers to trust, and how to nourish my body. I trusted myself as much as I could, and it was beautiful.
It almost feels forbidden to share the celebratory parts of this journey. Because others aren’t so lucky, I feel like those experiences should only be a whisper. And I have a hunch I’m not alone in feeling like this.
We’re not alone
Reflecting on all this reminds me of something I once read. That every pregnancy, every birth, every child holds stories for us. Mirrors that are being held up. Lessons that want to be seen. Something about ourselves that we still need to integrate, perhaps, or learn to befriend.
I love how in some cultures they say a mother has to be born, too. I believe that this sacred process isn’t something we can do alone. And it makes me curious about how we become mothers.
So, I turn to other moms.
My friends who already have children and wisdom to share. New mothers in the neighborhood who are also in the midst of what is probably the biggest transition of our lives. Books that talk about someone’s personal matrescence journey.
I want to listen, listen, listen to each and every mother I meet.
I do that not only to learn about the vast majority of experiences to normalize my own, but because I want to share them with others, too. I want us all to know that each of our journeys is valid. And that we don’t need to judge ourselves for what we think or feel during what may be the greatest transition of our lives.
Now, almost seven months into motherhood, I find little windows to bring this vision to life. I’m creating a collection of uncensored, anonymous stories around pregnancy, birth, and postpartum. A project by mothers for mothers to help us feel less alone and find a bit more compassion for ourselves.
Something I needed on my 40th day postpartum.
So, dear reader, fellow mom, heroine: I wonder if you’d like to share your story, too. Hopefully it will feel liberating to reflect on and share your unique journey. You can find the questionnaire and prompts here.
As a thank you, you’ll receive a free digital copy once the book is published. I’d be so grateful for your contribution.
And please let this be a reminder—you’re not alone.
~
author: Rebekka Lehmann
Image: Author's own
Editor: Nicole Cameron
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