Mother superior

“Oh my. Can you take herbs for that?” Her wide eyes, curtained by a mane of curly hair, peered at me from across a wooden picnic table covered in dandelion flowers. Small talk in an herbalism workshop had turned to my belly, orb-like in late pregnancy. A fellow participant had asked about my birth plan. It seemed like an innocent question, but frustration washed over me. I tried to sort through my indignant, blindsided Parts for an answer.

Early in pregnancy I had learned that the baby I was carrying had a severe heart defect. It was incurable but could be managed with multiple surgeries and lifelong medical care. Until then, a Part of me was fiercely committed to a “natural” pregnancy and birth. I concocted murky, green herbal infusions, practiced regular prenatal yoga, and planned to deliver at a low-intervention birth center. I imagined candles and soft music, as I pushed a healthy, pink baby into a warm tub of water to then go home and nest. My Crunchy Mom Part was in charge and going strong.

“Hospitals are bad,” my protective Parts were telling me. They were backed by the books I had read, the friends I had spoken with, and the birth classes I had attended. The obvious plan was that I’d sail through pregnancy as an Earth Mother goddess eating raw kale for breakfast and with no interventions, save the playlist that would sing me through a peaceful delivery.

When I learned of my child’s heart condition, it all crashed, of course. Parts surfaced that held grief, rage, and despair. Shame stepped in to call me a failure, because now, despite all of Crunchy Mom’s efforts, I had become Medical Mom.

My acquaintance’s question about herbs stirred up Parts of me that carried shame and judgment about not being the mother I had planned so meticulously to be. I felt grief that the pregnancy and birth I so desperately wanted were not going to happen. Fear tunneled its way into the deepest, most wounded Parts of myself. I had no idea what would happen after my child was born. While on the outside I quietly composed myself and explained that my child’s condition was going to require a bit more than herbs, underneath I was collapsing under the weight of a thousand burdened Parts.

The birth of my daughter was an initiation by fire. Over years of hospitalizations, scans, and conversations with doctors, Medical Mom quickly became a warrior and protector. But as I navigated the beeps of the monitors, opinions of specialists, and online chatter, I also learned to drop into my deepest knowing, to listen to my inner wisdom. I realized that all these Parts of me—Medical Mom, Crunchy Mom, Earth Mother, and more—had valuable gifts to offer. And, eventually, through lots of therapy and healing, they began to trust the capacity of my Self to be with it all.

My daughter is now 11 and thriving, thanks to intense medical interventions (and lots of holistic care too). The eventual befriending of Medical Mom and Crunchy Mom has been a slow practice of learning to trust in the innate wisdom of my clear, courageous Self—to know and advocate for what is healthiest for my child, whether it’s taking an herb or going to the hospital. It means seeing the goodness and the sacred in the sterile world of hospitals and the specialists who care for us, to see the same in the river we play in the next day that washes stress away.

It’s loving all the Parts that are along for the ride, finding footing in the in-between places, and letting Self lead the way. As it turns out, the two worlds I live in don’t actually contradict one another. They weave together and even complement each other. It often feels like we live with one foot in the sterile and the other in the dirt. These days, though, it feels less like I’m attempting an impossible split between the two and more like I’m experiencing both with fullness, presence, and gratitude.