On Labor.

by Ashley Weeks Cart

Dear Ashley,

It’s almost time. I’ve been composing this letter to you for quite a while. I’ve written it over and over and over in my head, and it’s important that I finally share it concretely. Maybe then these words will actually sink in and take hold.

You are about to once again face the toughest and most awesome thing that you’ll ever do.

How something so terrifyingly painful can simultaneously be so utterly amazing is an oxymoron I haven’t quite wrapped my head around. And I don’t think I ever will.

I remember you very vividly telling James in the wake of Addison’s birth that you would never, ever EVER do that again.

And you meant. You were so overwhelmed and, in many ways, traumatized, by how incredibly difficult the experience had been that you made a promise to yourself that you would never put your body through that kind of trauma. Ever. Again.

But then, with each passing moment with your child, you fell more and more in love and that vow drifted further and further from your thoughts.

All that work and pain seemed inconsequential compared to the crazy, all-consuming love that it brought into your life.

I suppose it makes sense that the reward of bringing life into the world is also one of life’s greatest challenges.

Like a ying and yang thing. Balance. Harmony. BLAH BLAH BLAH.

This time around, there are some things I want you to remember. I need you to remember. I know that you were incredibly scared and taken aback by Addison’s birth, by the depth of the pain, by the lack of control that you had over your body, despite all of your preparation. I do not want that fear to mar this birth for you. Now that you’ve been through labor and delivery once, you can pull from that experience to help rise above those insecurities, that kernel of doubt that your body isn’t going to do what it needs to do.

It will. It is. It knows exactly what to do, and you, above all else, need to remember that.

I do not want to hear the words, “I’m doing it wrong,” escape your lips once during this birth. No apologizing or utterances of guilt. You were so hard on yourself. So down. So broken through the final hours of labor with Sunny. You kept muttering words of self-doubt. Self-loathing. As though somehow you were messing up the experience. As though somehow your body wasn’t doing exactly what it was supposed to be doing. (And it was, as demonstrated by that strong and healthy 9 lb baby you pushed out into the world in under 17 minutes). As though somehow you weren’t behaving strongly enough. You weren’t stoic enough. Brave enough.

<Sigh>

You were and you are. All of those things. To question what you were doing only made the experience harder. More overwhelming.

Everyone in that room believed in you, except for you.

Not this time. Listen to James, and Kimmy, and the nurses, and the midwives when they encourage you. When they applaud your efforts. When they tell you how strong you are. How well you are doing. LISTEN TO THEM.

Trust yourself. Trust that whatever coping mechanisms you need to ride through those waves of pain are exactly the right coping mechanisms, because you know what is best for you. You and that little girl are going to do some really hard work, TOGETHER. You both are so much stronger and more capable than you can ever fully realize. Trust that you both were made to go through this kind of pain, and come out the other side healthy and happy and together.

You can do this. And you will.

Love,

Me