I'm kind of a control freak. And an anxiety basket case. It's a toxic combination, and one that did not help me to trust my body in anyway when I was pregnant. With a history of my periods flowing unpredictably and a lack of coordination, my body was a stranger I didn't trust. But it was labor, with its chaos and mess and unpredictability, that helped me learn to trust my body. And honestly, I trust my body more after labor in a way I never did before.
My distrust of my body started young. I was an uncoordinated kid who had trouble with simple physical tasks others sailed through, like walking along a curb edge or climbing a jungle gym. Because these tasks were hard for me, I feared them. I was afraid I'd trip over my feet and fall down while running, and I clung tight to the swing on the playground instead of jumping from it like the other kids because I didn't trust my body to land upright.
Because I doubted my own physical abilities, those around me started to doubt my abilities as well. "Be careful! Watch your step," my parents would say to me all the time. On hikes, my dad would automatically reach for my hand to steady me when the terrain got the least bit rocky. Even when I had younger siblings, it was me he worried about. Because I was uncoordinated. Because my body wasn't to be trusted.
I have also been terrified of vomiting since I was a young child, a disorder known as emetophobia. This phobia caused me to spend a good deal of time monitoring my body for signs of illness, as though this would somehow help me control my body and its wellness. And my distrust of my body only manifested in other ways as the years progressed.
When I finally got my long-awaited period at 15, I bled so heavily I soaked through a pad and turned my pajama shorts scarlet red one night. My heavy periods, which were also irregular, caused me to have an iron deficiency. A few years later, my anxiety at heading away to college exacerbated my nervous stomach and I never wanted to stray too far from a bathroom in case I felt a gurgle. My body was not to be trusted.
When I finally went into labor, my body pushed aside my fears and took over. I'd always feared losing control, but to my surprise I felt relief that my body knew what to do when I didn't.
When I became pregnant with my son in my late 20s, I was sick, terrified of throwing up (even though I somehow avoided it with both of my pregnancies!), and just overall pretty miserable. Sure, I was awe of what my body was creating. I loved feeling the little nudges that later turned to punches. But ultrasound pictures and feeling baby kicks from outside my tummy barely hinted at the miracle of humanity brewing in my belly.
I studied up on labor in my baby books, determined to be as in control of the birthing process as possible. I attended birth preparation classes and packed my hospital bag with cute underwear and candles. I packed a photo of my cat, because I clearly had no clue what I was doing.
My body, the same one that bled profusely, the one I worried couldn't balance on a curb, had created human perfection.
When I finally went into labor, my body pushed aside my fears and took over. I'd always feared losing control, but to my surprise I felt relief that my body knew what to do when I didn't. My contractions started out mild and far apart, and grew consistently closer together until it was time to head to the hospital. Right after the nurses threatened to send me home from the hospital because I wasn't dilated enough, my water broke and I was admitted to the hospital. My body was on my team. An epidural provided pain relief, but still my body knew what to do. After a long night of labor, I pushed out the most beautiful baby boy I'd ever seen, cone-head and all. He was perfect. My body, the same one that bled profusely, the one I worried couldn't balance on a curb, had created human perfection.
My daughter's birth four years later was a surprise unmedicated labor because I didn't have time for an epidural. I didn't brush up on any "natural" pain relief techniques for her labor because I was so sure I'd have an epidural again. But my daughter was born an hour and half after I arrived at the hospital, though, so an epidural wasn't possible. I bleated like a goat in agony. I pleaded and begged for drugs. Anything. I couldn't possibly endure a natural labor. This was not what I wanted. My body couldn't handle it. Still, it could. My body took over, pushing my baby down and out in violent and effective contractions. I screamed and begged and pushed my baby out. She was big and chunky and healthy and beautiful.
I'd never trusted my body, but when it really mattered, it was behind me. Working for me when I gave up. Creating perfection in snuggly little baby form.
The way my milk came in to feed my babies and the quickness with which my body healed after my labors only reinforced my newfound respect and appreciation for the work it could do. My body, like so many women's before me, knew just what to do to protect the gift of life.
My body has earned my trust, and I've learned to be less nervous, to take more risks with physical feats. Yes, I'm not the most coordinated person on the planet. I have a nervous stomach. Sometimes I have heavy periods. But I'm totally and completely capable, thanks in part to a strong and able body that lets me dance, hug, exercise, and maybe most impressive of all, make babies.