A lot of people have asked me recently why on earth I would want to be a doula. (A doula is a childbirth assistant, there to support the laboring woman and her family.) So naturally, I have spent a lot of time reflecting on this question the last few days. The answer isn't merely because I love babies. Because most of my job as a doula would have nothing to do with the baby itself, and everything to do with being in tune with the emotional, physical and mental well-being of the mother. When being asked why I feel a pull towards this profession an image comes to mind. It is of my own labor and birth of my daughter. I am laying on the hospital bed and about to start pushing, looking into the faces of my mother and partner of the time, both stone white and scared shitless. I often wonder how things would have been different if I had a calm and reassuring face to gaze into as I started to push. I had an ideal labor and delivery, despite the fact that I was screaming so loud that I thought I was listening to someone else scream. So I don't look back on the experience with regret or a desire to change something that happened, I am very happy with the way things went. But the underlying stress and worry I could see in the faces of those I care about have obviously stuck with me.

The other memory that comes to mind is the poor high school girl I had to share my recovery room with, who had the desire to try breastfeeding and no one to help her through it. No one to tell her to trust her instinct in the matter and feed her baby when it felt right. No one to tell her what she was feeling was normal. NO ONE there to just listen to what she was dealing with. Through my time in this room with her I learned that not only was she having trouble with breastfeeding, but she was rushed into having an epidural, which stopped her labor, therefore leading to her being rushed into having a cesarean section, and was confused about the extra pain and the healing process. No one was with this woman who was objective enough to explain all the options to her, to listen to what she wanted, and to advocate for that. Not that her family did not have the best of intentions, but when you are watching someone you love go through the most painful and transformational process of their young life, it is hard to think about what is going through their mind when the loved ones can only think as far as the safety of the mother. When you have a corporatized birthing industry with doctors that just want to babies out by the time they are supposed to leave, who is left to be the voice of the mothers who are concerned about their birthing experiences and the well-being of their children?

I suppose the answer is me. No, I know it is. And others like me. It upsets me to look around and see the intricate systems, institutions and processes that "help" women through pregnancy, along with helping them learn to ignore their bodies, and forget what they are naturally capable of acheiving on their own. Think about it, our anatomy is constructed in a way that spells out childbirth. It is what our bodies are meant to do. How many women gave birth with only the assistance of a midwife and other women to support them? No hospitals, no forceps, no cesareans. While I feel like these technologies are very useful in situations of high risk, I do not think that every time they are leaned upon is high risk, rather convenience.

I want to help women regain some of the power that our bodies naturally hand us. I want to be there to speak for them when they are breathing through contractions, and focusing inward on the beautiful task at hand. I want to be there to listen, to support, to ease the fear, and help women trust themselves.

It also isn't just about laboring woman. I think back to the days following the birth of my daughter and of her father, whom had never handled such a small and precious package. The dance of getting to know one another as a family, and of falling into a rhythm with all three of us was delicate. My daughter would not sleep if she was not, at the very least, right next to a warm body. About ten hours after she had been born, I still hadn't slept much due to the crowded recovery room, and that fact, and I had to pee. If you have ever given birth before, you know how awesomely akward this little task is. I had set her down in her little hospital cradle, without breathing so as not to wake her, jut praying that I could go and return fast enough before she woke up. Of course as soon as I got into the bathroom and sat down she started wailing. Two seconds later, knock at the door. "Just a minute" Do my business. Another knock at the door. "Almost done!" (Getting frustrated at this point and my boobs are now rock hard from having to listen to my screaming baby for so long, ahhhh milk let down.) I open the door and there is my childs clueless and terrified father leaning over the cradle just watching her cry, not knowing how in the hell to even pick her up. (I could go on for days about my frustrations with him and the situation, or ones like these, but I am going to move on...) How many new fathers, or even mothers, grandparents, families, have gone through this? The clumsy dance of learning to parent a newborn. How awesome would it be if everyone had a calm assured and experienced person there to help them find that balance, that comfort with ones own child?

This is what I want to do.