On becoming a mother, losing the village, and what I'm here to do about it.
Every little girl thinks about being a mother at some point in her life. Goodness knows that everyone is a perfect parent until they actually have kids. "If I had kids, they'd do this…" "If I had kids, they'd do that…" "If my kids did that, I would…" and so on. I remember confidently telling my own mother, "When I have kids, I will read On the Origin of Species aloud to help them become really smart." My mother asked me how I was so sure that she hadn't read it to me in utero.
She hadn't. And neither did I.
It's funny how our plans and expectations are so dogmatically set, but change instantaneously when faced with reality. If I had a nickel for every doctor or nurse I have spoken to who confidently claims that they would never bedshare or cosleep with their baby, and then goes on to do exactly that when the realities of mothering are brought to bear, I would have no need of creating this website. Because things aren't always how we imagine them to be.
When I unexpectedly found myself pregnant with twins at 25 years old — in a job I hated, in a relationship that was essentially over, and in debt from years of being underpaid — I wasn't exactly picturing sunshine and rainbows. I was envisioning colicky babies, preteens who hated me, teens with bad BO, sneaking out windows.
I certainly didn't expect to be instantly awestruck by the tiny humans — who looked more like lizards — that came out of me. There I was, living my nightmare out of every '90s sitcom: an operating room, bright lights, thirty people literally busting down the door as I shot 34-week twins out of my business, right at shift change, into the bewildered arms of the obstetrical team.
I didn't expect to feel like my soul was being cut from my body when I had to go home from the NICU. I didn't know that my body could make those grief sounds. I didn't know that I would go on to have six more babies, including more twins, within eleven years. I didn't know that everything was about to shift. Right then and there.
Because when you give birth for the first time, you aren't just birthing a new baby. Not just simply bringing a soul from the ether into this world. You too are changing. You are transforming. You are broken down into your base components and remade into a new version of yourself. It's messy. It's painful. It's bewildering.
This is your matrescence.
What is matrescence, you may ask. Matrescence is the metamorphosis of the birthing woman, from the maiden to the mother. Like with puberty, you have no say in this. It unfolds without your consent or your desire. It's a stripping down of all that you knew of yourself, into your new person. As one friend put it:
"I had poured myself a glass of water before we went to the hospital. When we returned, it was still there, but it was poured by a different person. I was no longer the same person who poured that water. I was different, now that she is here." A friend, on the day she came home
No, you are not so different that your core interests or values are completely gone, but often priorities completely shift. Another friend of mine started ogling an off-grid property with me, dreaming of sheep and making clothes, having bees and growing our own food. She said to me, "I never wanted any of this until I had M. Now, that's all I want." I still longed for travel and adventure, but I wanted my kids with me, and I was happy to wait until the time was right. They are my adventure.
But it's more than that. Your body has changed. Your mind has changed. Your hormones are constantly changing. Your relationships with your partner, your parents, your friends and coworkers are all changed. You're coming undone while you're learning to keep another person alive. And then slowly, you get to discover this new you. And sometimes, you don't always like things about her. Maybe New-You hasn't showered in days. Maybe New-You doesn't want to pet your cat because you're too touched out. Maybe New-You isn't interested in sex, or in hearing your partner complain about the traffic on the way home. Maybe that coworker's messy relationship drama is no longer nail-bitingly fascinating and New-You really thinks she should get her shit together. And maybe New-You wants to move to an off-grid cottage, on a remote island, and grow lavender and dance in the moonlight.
Society has completely ignored this transformation. What was long celebrated, honoured and supported in the past is now brushed over. People are aware that you're probably not getting much sleep, but that's usually where the sympathy and support end. They're likely really interested in holding the baby, and not so interested in holding you, in the way you really need.
Ideally, you should be lying in bed for forty days, feeding and caring for your newborn, while treasured family and friends bring you nourishing foods, clean your house and listen to your feelings. But more often than not, you're lucky if your partner gets five days off work, and then you're on your own doing everything — while passing clots, leaking milk, nipples cracked and bleeding, praying you don't sneeze. Some of you have just endured major abdominal surgery so intense that you're legally not allowed to drive for six weeks, but are somehow supposed to be okay on your own.
Because what supports are even left for us anymore? For those of us in Canada who qualify, you can get up to eighteen months of maternity leave. But many of us don't qualify, or can't afford to live on less than half of our income for long stretches of time. Our mothers, grandmothers, sisters and friends? Most of them are working. Or busy. Or live far away. Or dead, as was the case with my own mother. Some people are blessed with loving and supportive families, and I am so happy for them. A bit jealous (haha), but truly happy. And I wish the same for every mother. Society as a whole would be better off if the women who are bringing forth the next generation were loved, honoured, appreciated, supported and well. Physically and mentally.
Thankfully, for women who are blessed to have midwifery care, there is a more hands-on approach to postpartum aftercare. But for everyone else, you get what? A six-week, ten-minute postpartum appointment which focuses mainly on the baby. I remember telling my family doctor that I had gotten out of the tub, and when I curled up to do that, something large protruded from my stomach, and I was concerned it was an organ. And what was her response? "It probably was!" Then she gave me the number for a private vasectomy practice six hours away from my home and sent me on my merry way. No mention of pelvic floor physiotherapy. No additional questions. Not even a requisition for a postpartum glucose test to see if my gestational diabetes had gone away.
Pair that with a partner who needed to go back to work, and several other small children at home, and that's a recipe for disaster. Thankfully, I was somehow okay mentally — but physically? I had severe, unbearable back pain for twenty months. I couldn't lie down for more than four hours at a time. Sometimes I would have to sit upright, awake all night, because the pain was too unbearable. Because who has time to drag small children to the doctor to wait an hour for a five-minute appointment with someone who condescendingly tells you to lose weight?
All this is to say the clichéd thing: we need a damn village.
We need women who have been there, done that, and can hold us through the darkness and the light. Not tell us to have a stiff upper lip, or that their baby was sleeping through the night at two weeks old (liars, haha). We need women who don't question us when we finally find the thing that works for us. We need women to answer questions, assuage fears, and be there when it's tough. We need to see and talk with women who have done the thing! We need someone to truly see us as we ascend into motherhood — to see us as multifaceted women who are being reborn ourselves.
That is what I am here to do. I am here to guide you through your own matrescence, whether it's your first birth or your tenth. I specialize in prenatal and postpartum herbal support and nutritional guidance. I call upon my trauma healing, intuitive energy healing and EFT work to support you in this transition. I bring my lactation education, my birth doula training, and my 12+ years of pregnancy, birth and breastfeeding knowledge to you. I've been preparing for this for fifteen years — my lived experience is here to light the way for the next generation of mothers. To hold space for you, to see you, and anoint your initiation into motherhood.
There wasn't a word for what I do, so I made one. Matrescence names the passage. Matrescent names the woman inside it. Matrescera is the one who keeps her through it — not a midwife, not a therapist, not a nutritionist, but someone whose whole specialty is a single passage of a woman's life, and all of it at once. It's an old role. It only lost its name somewhere along the way.
— Stephanie
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