The Transition
This poem likes to dance to my playlist Badass Bitches.
The Transition
When I was pregnant with our first child, my husband and I dutifully attended a birthing class on Sunday afternoons, at a community center in a converted rowhouse near Howard University.
There we sat, with our wide eyes and naive questions, while our graceful instructor taught us about nutrition and hormones and the profound brilliance of the female body.
We talked about doulas and the importance of having a birth plan, and what to do if that plan goes off the rails.
We watched videos of babies being born and heard their mothers scream them into the world. And I thought, "Holy shit."
We also learned about the stage of labor called the transition. This is the stage right before delivery. Right before your body tells you to push like hell, and you do, and your baby is born.
The transition is the most intense part of labor. During this phase, we were told, you may feel like you can't possibly keep going. Like there is no way on God's green earth this baby will ever emerge from your body, or that you could ever dig deep enough to find the strength to push them out. You may feel absolute despair.
That dark moment will be brief.
Do not doubt your fierce, innate power.
It was a Thursday night when I went into labor with my son. I soon came to realize that his birth would not be a quick sprint around the track, I was climbing a mountain. I labored for a long time. We moved from our home to the hospital. The contractions were relentless. Exhausting hours turned into days.
As we were closing in on the end of day two, I felt depleted. Nothing seemed to be working. My midwife suggested getting into a warm shower. So I did.
I stood there in my bathing suit, the warm water washing over me, and I suddenly started sobbing into my husband's chest. I couldn't do it anymore. I didn't have the strength to endure the pain any longer, much less finish the job. I wanted out.
And as my tears came, I remembered. I remembered the feeling of absolute despair they told us about. "This must be the Transition," I thought. I must be staring up at the final ascent. At once, I knew with certainty -- I was almost there.
And I was right.
My son was born ten minutes later.
I did have the strength to scream him into the world, placenta and all.
I think about that feeling.
That feeling of self-doubt and despair.
Maybe you have felt it too.
Maybe you are one of the women feeling it right now.
I am.
Ladies, I think this means we are about to birth something big and beautiful and world-changing.
So, take a deep breath.
Collect your strength.
And get ready to scream.