by Brandi Holloway
On September 28th, 1999, I became a mother for the first time. My partner Scott and I welcomed our daughter Jorah into the world with tears of joy and gratitude. After a full week of baby bliss it finally dawned on me that I was recovering from major abdominal surgery; my baby was born by cesarean. My partner, midwife and doula all assured me that there would be another opportunity for a different birth in the future and I hung onto that hope. Over time, the tenderness of new motherhood faded as did the scar on my once pregnant belly.
Almost four years later, on a muggy summer evening, our daughter Sorell was born. In the years between my babies’ births I had become a certified childbirth educator and doula. I assisted countless women in labor and co-founded a non-profit organization, The Birth Circle, whose mission is to support and empower women through their pregnancies and beyond. I read everything I could get my hands on related to pregnancy and labor- and I was ready to have another baby. When it became apparent that Sorell would also be born by cesarean, I took a deep breath and swallowed my pain and disappointment. What did I have to be disappointed about anyway? My pregnancies were relatively easy, and I had no problems breastfeeding my healthy babies. Why couldn’t I just be happy with the gifts I had received?
Years passed and my babies grew into beautiful little girls. My passion for working with childbearing families continued. I channeled my energy into ensuring the growth of The Birth Circle and I decided to go to nursing school. I tried to put the past behind me and to focus on the future. Every now and then I would run my hands over the horizontal length of that familiar purple scar and feel betrayed by my body. My mind understood that there was nothing I could have done differently to change the circumstances of my babies’ births. My body, though, held the memory of the cesareans and I wondered if my daughters’ bodies did too. I could not escape the feeling of failure.
And then… I discovered running. It was casual at first, with a mile here and there. The cool air and sunshine nourished my desire to heal. As my feet pounded against the pavement I envisioned all the angry thoughts and feelings being absorbed by the earth around me. Soon one mile turned into three and then I was running my first 5K. Without even realizing it, running had become an essential part of my life. It allowed me to heal from a place deep inside that no amount of cognitive therapy could reach.
Each run slowly erased my feelings of failure, and the confidence I had in myself and my body grew. It was this newfound confidence and the support of my “running doula,” Kerry, which brought me to my first half-marathon in Columbus, Ohio in 2007. Like the births of my children, the details of that perfect, clear October afternoon will remain in my heart forever. Each and every mile we ran that day brought strength, hope and clarity. As I crossed the finish line in just over 2 hours I saw my daughters cheering in the crowd. My teary eyes could barely make out the sign they held up, “We love you mom. You can do it!”
The healing power of running has changed my life, and it has changed my daughters as well. A few days after I finished the big race I came home to discover the girls dressed in their running outfits. “Look, Mama, we’re playing marathon!” they shouted. I recognized the example I had set for my daughters every time I laced up my running shoes. My fears about having failed them by the method of their birth dissolved. They were going to be just fine.
While I strongly believe that a woman’s birth experience shapes her perception of herself as a mother, it no longer defines me. When I look at my cesarean scar, I still see a scar, but nothing more. My daughters have heard the stories of their births and know that their mama did her best to bring them into the world as healthy as they could be. They are strong and confident in their own bodies, their own abilities. And if they should choose to become mothers themselves someday, I will be right there on the sidelines cheering, “I love you. You can do it!” and I will know without a doubt that they will.