Ellenie

How do you define “mothering” in your own life—and has that definition changed over time?

Mothering is to hold and be held. Before my pregnancy with my daughter, I remember yearning not just to become a mother, but to be mothered. To be held. To be nurtured. I realize, even though the first thing I ever did was hold my child—first in my womb, then in my arms—is that I have no ownership over her. I created her, I brought her here, I will always hold her physically, spiritually, and in whatever way she needs me to—but I don’t own her. She is of her own free will and destiny. She is an extension of me, of our bloodline. I am her foundation, her steward, her protector—it’s my job to SEE her, to WITNESS her, to guide her. I hold her and she shapes me. In the nurturing of us holding and shaping each other, we allow ourselves to heal the patterns of discord that have been present between the mothers and daughters in our lineage.

What has mothering revealed to you about who you are, beyond the roles you play?

Presence is everything and BEING is important. I feel like I was being prepared for my daughter my entire life. But had I not been present, in my body, and paying attention, I may have missed the lessons I needed to protect both of our lives. I learned CPR for the first time at 11 years old, again at 15 and 16, and multiple times in my 20s. I learned and embodied so much about advocacy, infant CPR, and resuscitation—I became an herbalist, birthworker, doula, and home birth midwife—and all of the information I had obtained was used to save our lives during pregnancy and postpartum. But it wasn’t the roles that changed my life, it was the presence I had in those roles; when my internal alarms went off and my intuition alerted me to PAY ATTENTION. I assisted newborns in breathing, I have managed life-threatening emergencies—but my daughter is the first person I have seen completely lose her breath, the first person whose heart stopped beating in front of me, the first body I held limp in my arms, the first person I have had to perform CPR on. Now I see just how important it is to be present.

No matter how planned, no matter how prepared, you have to be present with yourself. I had to be present with myself. With my child. For us—being a family navigating medical complexities—we can dream about what our beautiful daughter’s life looks like, but the sobering truth for us all is that we don’t own our children. I don’t own my child. She has her own destiny and I am her steward. Prior to becoming her mother, I would plan far into my future, and frequently revisit moments in my past. But when her condition was uncertain, and even after it was revealed, it truly opened my eyes to how important it is to be present for her life, to tend to her needs, but to also truly feel every moment of our time together, no matter how much time we get. Now I truly understand how important it is to be right here—right now.

What parts of your journey feel unseen, misunderstood, or unspoken—and deserve to be named out loud?

Even though our daughter has medical complexities—she is a normal child. She just has extra accessories. She may look different and develop at a different pace—but she is still a sentient being capable of movement, language, expression, and impact. She continuously brings joy to not just us but everyone she meets. Our life IS harder because of the medical equipment needed to sustain her at this time, but we still need community, we still seek joy, we still encourage her to not just survive—but thrive. While some of our dreams may seem distant in coming true—we know delayed is not denied and she will live a lit little life. Nothing will stop us.

People are allowed to be curious about her condition and ask questions—ESPECIALLY OTHER CHILDREN!!! Asking questions is not something to be embarrassed or ashamed of—and it is a chance to teach children to be compassionately curious. It is also how they form relationships and community. Adults ask each other questions all the time to get to know each other—we should allow children to do the same and encourage them to be compassionate with people who may be different than them.

How has your experience of mothering been shaped by your lineage, your culture, or the community around you?

I remember the first time I heard a friend speak to her mother with adoration. It was the most pure and loving thing I had ever witnessed. It made me realize there is a whole world of mothering/mother–daughter relationships that exist outside of what I had dreamt possible for my own daughter. It was an exhilarating moment—learning that I could share a love with my daughter that would be loud, palpable, and undeniable by anyone who witnessed us together or heard us speak to each other with reverence. That moment sharpened my attention far before I became a mother—so that I too could witness and study the possibilities of who I can become as a mother.

What was your postpartum experience like—emotionally, physically, and spiritually? What kind of support (or lack of it) did you receive during that time?

Postpartum was both painfully difficult, as well as joyously easy—at least that’s how it started. I had the privilege of knowing my daughter would have a long NICU stay if she were to survive (her spirit was loud and clear when I was 4 weeks pregnant that she intended to stay). The issue was that throughout my 2nd and 3rd trimesters, I faced medical negligence and manipulation that was threatening my life and my baby’s. I knew we were in for a rough ride. Things seemed to conspire in our favor at the very end of my pregnancy—but we were completely removed and isolated from the few people who knew what we were going through. I exclusively pumped milk for my baby for 13 months. Five months of that, we lived in the NICU together. I never really left her side. Every 4 to 5 days, I would drive an hour and a half back home, meal prep food for the week, and head right back to the hospital. The NICU was very traumatic—but because I was in survival mode, I don’t think most of it hit me until we all finally were home together. The NICU felt like a battlefield—I craved cleansing and celebration when we were finally discharged home.

If you could design the ideal postpartum care system, what would it look and feel like?

Mothers would be pampered! For at least the first 3 months. The first month she would stay home resting and recovering, her community would come cook warming meals from scratch, bodyworkers would nurture her, reset her bones—she would receive ritual and bodywork, someone would bring gallons of herbal tea for healing her body and feeding her baby. Someone would help with the laundry and cleaning. She would be showered with love, she would be able to rest. She would never be alone unless she asked to be. She would be held, and she would be able to hold herself in the new role of motherhood.

Can you share a moment of deep joy in your mothering journey—one that lives in your body?

Seeing my baby outside of my body was the deepest joy. I immediately felt like I wanted 10 more children, like I wish I started my family a decade sooner, like I would be pregnant again the next day if I could. I didn’t see the tubes and cables connected to her supporting and monitoring her life at first. I just saw her, and I told her out loud what I always told her when she was in my womb: “I trust you. I trust your journey. Thank you for being here. Thank you for choosing me. I trust whatever you need to do.”

What grief, loss, or transformation has shaped the way you show up as a mother?

I still feel like I have not yet recovered myself. I am different—not because I became a mother, but because of the complexity of my daughter’s condition. I haven’t been able to return to a career as a midwife, which I loved. I always knew I would take my children to see the world—but with her complexities, it has become a lot more complicated to plan that kind of lifestyle, especially without the ability to work. And I really don’t have consistent access to childcare that makes me feel like my daughter is safe and protected if I am to be absent. In the beginning, it felt like a lot of my dreams died; in my resiliency, I know I can dream new dreams—but sometimes I don’t always want to dream new dreams. As time passes, old dreams become new again, and new dreams become exciting again, but the pressure of time reminds me of grief and loss. My only remedy is to stay present and to enjoy the truth that I get to really pour into my daughter in ways that I have never imagined.

How do you access healing—emotionally, spiritually, or ancestrally?

Most of the time—I just BREATHE. Real big, intentional breathing. I walk (for hours sometimes), I dance, I garden, I meditate, I notice the patterns, I ask for help, I seek counsel, I GO TO THERAPY, I teach, I lean into community, and I cry real big when I need to. I don’t run from anything I feel. And I try to remember to trust my intuition (and my ancestors when I am not being stubborn, LOL). For me, all of these actions are forms of prayer.

Are there any rituals, practices, or traditions that keep you grounded?

Meditation, art, herbalism, and dancing keep me grounded. Fresh herbal baths reset my soul. And doing my best to make sure my home is physically and energetically clean is super helpful—though if I’m honest it is sometimes a frustrating and seemingly unending task.

What does community care mean to you—and how do you invite others into your mothering journey to help bridge gaps of support, understanding, or visibility?

Community care means there is a village. That one person doesn’t shoulder any task alone. That we honor and share our strengths and cover each other when support is needed. Community care means we show up and tend to each other.

When someone wants to be involved in our lives, we welcome it. I’ve always wanted my daughter to have a loving community surrounding her because I know how important it is to be witnessed and protected by people who grow to love you and will help shape you as a person. If it wasn’t for me seeking out community, I don’t know how we would have survived pregnancy or the NICU. Because of community, we get some opportunity to rest—to have my daughter in safe, loving hands so I can tend to my own needs, clean my house, or just be for a moment. We love when people ask to learn how to care for our daughter and actually show up to do it. For me, it feels like they see her beyond her medical needs, beyond her disability. They honor her humanity and give her tender love and care. She deserves that.

To mother within systems that weren’t made for you is an act of resistance. How do you navigate, push against, or reimagine those systems in your everyday world?

I am a strong believer in creating the world I want to live in. Pushing into existing systems to change them is necessary—but the systems that already exist continuously rob people of their lives and livelihoods with limited care and limited options to receive care. It’s why the call to birthwork felt so urgent for me. I began mothering women before I had a child of my own because we deserve so much better than what we have. If I know something that other women, mothers, or birthing people need to know, I will find a way to share that knowledge. I will always encourage women to ask questions and not stop asking until they have all the answers they need. I will always encourage women to not be silent about their experience and to keep changing the people/providers around you until you find the people who listen and respond appropriately. That is how we will create networks of safety and care—by finding the people who listen and can demonstrate it. I will keep mothering the women in my life and hope they will in turn mother me as we continue to birth new systems of care.

What do you want the world to understand about mothers like you?

Don’t pity me. It’s an honor to mother the child I have. And because I am her mother, you have to know all that medical equipment isn’t going to stop us from doing anything. We are going to see the world. Have all the experiences. We are not afraid to challenge what the world says we are capable of. We gon’ live a good life! We already do!

What do you hope your child—or future generations—inherit from your story?

Always trust your intuition, listen to your divine spirit—it will never mislead you. Be present for every moment.