Do you know about the birth? I’m often asked, sitting with some new mother in her pajamas. I go see them as soon as possible. I bring food, fold laundry, do dishes. I want them to feel seen, heard, human. Sometimes they’re bright-eyed, centered, fine, but too often they’re hollowed out, haunted, hurting. When they talk about giving birth, they sigh or shrug or burst into tears. Whatever, they say, shaking it off. My baby is here. My baby is alive. That’s what matters.
Bullshit! I never dare say. You matter. What happened to you matters.