By Brittany Olson 
I’ll never forget the terror that pierced my heart when I found out I was pregnant. My mother was abusive when I was growing up, and now, I was about to step into the role of the figure that hurt me the very most.
From the Hollywood-style water breaking in our bathroom at 3:30 a.m. (on Mother’s Day, of all days) to being rushed to the OR later that night, I’ll also never forget the night my son Titus was born even if there are pieces of it I don’t remember.
I’ll never forget the general sense that something was wrong right before Titus started having decelerations. I don’t remember the actual birth because I was under general anesthesia, but I’ll never forget waking up in a panic because my baby was nowhere in the room. Too much anesthesia had crossed the placenta when I was put under; when he came out, he wasn’t breathing and needed to be resuscitated.
I don’t remember everything my doctor explained to me when I woke up, but I’ll never forget the way it felt when my husband and I said goodbye to our baby before he was flown to a larger hospital with a special care nursery. I certainly won’t forget those eyes of his, already big and blue-gray like mine, staring straight into my soul as he was placed on my chest for a few fleeting minutes before he had to go away.
I’ll never forget finding out I couldn’t go with him because our insurance company said I didn’t require a higher level of care, and I’m not sure I can forgive that either. Their callousness robbed us of the first two days of our new lives together and threw all sorts of complications into our first month of breastfeeding. He was slow to get back to birth weight and was nearly five weeks old before he finally latched somewhat properly. I also struggled with intrusive thoughts and nightmares for months afterward.
Of all the things that happened that night when our seemingly textbook labor went completely sideways, having the very primal desire to be with my newborn denied as a matter of dollars and cents was the thing that broke my heart and traumatized me the most.
Two years and some change later, I still have moments when I’m reminded I’m very much still healing. They’re getting fewer and farther between, but I had a panic attack at my last dental appointment, and medical appointments still make me uneasy. I’m still reckoning with a postpartum body even if the C-section scar has faded to a silvery, gossamer line across my abdomen. I have a wonderful support system, and I’m eternally grateful for everyone who keeps showing up for us even if I wish I didn’t have to lean on them quite so much this far into postpartum.
If you’re a mom and you didn’t have a traumatic birth, chances are you probably know someone who did. Depending on which study you’re looking at, anywhere from 33 to 45 percent of American moms experienced trauma during the events leading up to, during, or immediately after giving birth. Trauma—most succinctly defined as an adverse event so magnanimous your nervous system can’t process it in one bite—has very real and lasting mental and physical complications that are often permanent.
We could get deep into the weeds about how much of that trauma is or isn’t preventable, but in a society where we already treat mothers and babies as afterthoughts, there are more of us hurting even more deeply than others realize at first blush. Like all mothers, what trauma survivors especially need is unwavering support and unconditional love from the people in their lives as they navigate a new normal that doesn’t look anything like they expected.
Another thing I can tell you about trauma, for as heavy and crushing as it is, is that it does get better. I can’t pinpoint a specific day I finally started feeling better, but with time and patience and therapy, I did. I never felt like myself again after having a baby, but it felt like a dense fog beginning to lift, and I was able to see the sun again. Healing isn’t linear, and it’s often painful, but I promise it won’t always feel this hard.
Most importantly, you will be happy again. Even amidst all the physical and emotional pain we have endured together, we’ve had even more moments of beauty and sweetness that now outweigh the heartache. When we first brought Titus home, I wondered if I was going to fail him the way my mother failed me because if I flunked giving birth, what else was I destined to screw up? After hearing my whole life that my body was designed to give birth naturally, I couldn’t, and the guilt that came with failing my baby was a cross I didn’t ask to carry.
Well, I’m here to tell you that bringing forth a child from your loins instead of the escape hatch or adoption isn’t the only thing that makes a mother a mother. It’s the big and little acts of caring, nurturing, and showing up day and night that make a mother a mother too.
It’s in those big and little acts (the ones we remember and the ones we forget) where the beauty and sweetness and reward of motherhood can be found the most—even and especially, in the wake of trauma.
Whether it’s getting to watch the sunrise together after a sleepless night of cluster feeding and colic, that first gummy smile, those warm and soft toddler hugs, all the little wonders of the world can be discovered in the trenches of early motherhood. The future belongs to those who show up, and I firmly believe that the joy belongs to those who show up too (especially when it’s hard).
Two years later, Titus is thriving. He’s the best thing to ever happen to us, and he’s the best thing about us. He’s a brave and independent boy with a big personality and an even bigger heart who loves books, trains, tractors, cows, and most of all, his mom. We’re still nursing and will continue to nurse for the foreseeable future; that was one thing trauma tried to take from us and couldn’t.
He still has those big blue-gray eyes like mine, perfectly framed with his dad’s dark and thick eyelashes. (Seriously, why do boys always get pretty eyelashes?) It would appear that he and I have more than made up for lost time. You could say that by sacrificing those first hours and days, we got the years together in return.
Another thing trauma tried to steal from us and couldn’t was the joy of motherhood. We just held out for it even when the world was so dark that it was difficult to see. Now that I’m in a place where I can see everything more clearly for what it was and less burdened by what has been, I’m here to tell you I’m here for you if you are living with birth trauma yourself, and I promise there’s so, so much beauty and joy waiting for you in the days ahead on this journey called motherhood.
by Laurie Davis 
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