Going To A Birth Is Like Camping


You plan and pack and check the weather and think you’re ready, only to get rained on in the middle of your trip and you end up eating cold spaghetti out of a Ziplock instead of reveling in goopy s’mores over a roaring fire. You dream about sunny hikes and trail mix and starry nights, and forget about bugs and outhouses and the fact that blow up beds never stay blown. You think you bring everything you need to be comfortable, and you always end up incredibly uncomfortable.

You will tell the stories for the rest of your life. And the people you camp (birth) with will be forever branded on your weary heart. In a good way.

The more doula work I do, the more I doubt myself as a doula. It is thick, thick business. It is intense, it can be frightening, and I always leave wishing I would have done something differently. I am also so clearly called to serve in this way. I’m trusting the process, I’m letting myself be a beginner, and it is painfully humbling.

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