The question isn’t who is going to let me; it’s who is going to stop me. – Ayn Rand
“Travis and I have decided to give birth in a hospital” my sister Sarah told me. “I hope that’s OK with you?”
With my sister Sarah and her beautiful pregnant belly
This question annoys me. It demonstrates exactly what is wrong with our maternal healthcare system. Pregnant women are disempowered. They are passive and docile and allow others to make decisions for them.
“Ok with me!?” I replied. “It’s your body. Don’t ask anyone for permission to use it as you see fit.”
I can think of no other occurrence where otherwise powerful and independent women blindly turn control of their bodies over to another person. As a home birth advocate, I have no more business telling my sister what she “should” do with her body than a doctor does which is to say that neither of us do. All we can do is offer opinions.
I am not anti-western medicine. Obstetricians are necessary and important; they can cut or pull babies out in emergencies. But they do not actually “deliver” them. God, Goddess, science, the divine- whatever you choose to call it delivers your baby to you. It is your responsibility and privilege to deliver your baby to the world. Women are the rock-stars. Obstetricians are back-up dancers.
There is only one person who knows how to give birth to your baby. That person is you. The only thing you have to do is pay attention. Just as when your body needs nourishment, you feel hunger and when you need sleep, your eyes grow heavy, so too will your marvelous and all-knowing body teach you how to give birth. Our bodies have been giving birth since the beginning of time. 490,000 other women will give birth with you on the day you give birth.
Sarah, Travis and Drake
My sister had her drug-free, vaginal hospital birth. And it did empower her; I know because she says that next time she’s going to have a home birth.
My nephew Drake
About Roanna Rosewood
For as long as I can remember, I wanted one thing: a baby. The eldest of five children, I got plenty of hands-on experience. I knew how to change diapers, rock little ones to sleep and feed babies. But nobody told me about birth. I assumed it to be no more than the unfortunate means-to-a-baby. It wasn’t until I was in full-on labor that I glimpsed the power of birth. Almost as quickly as I did, they rushed in to “save me,” to relieve the pain and cut my baby from my body.
When it was over, I had a beautiful baby boy but had lost a part of myself.
I began to crave birth.
I battled for my birth right for four years. I endured two Cesareans, fought three doctors, two midwives and endless inner demons before achieving a home birth.
It was the single most pleasurable moment of my life.
Let me say that again: giving birth was the single most pleasurable moment of my life. And I live a pretty pleasurable life. I’ve galloped on horseback through high mountain deserts, been sailing around the Caribbean and diving with dolphins and giant sea turtles. I’ve purchased perfume in exotic markets in Cairo and ridden a mechanical bull in a Colorado bar. I laugh, cry, knit and dance with the most-wonderful of girlfriends a woman could have. My closet is full of fabulous clothes and sexy boots. But none of these things has brought me as much exquisite pleasure as giving birth to my daughter.
I have accomplished “important” things. I am the mother of the three incredible children. I’ve worked and volunteered for non-profit organizations, mentored and taught children and women and traveled to Northern Uganda to assist survivors of war give birth. I own businesses, invest in real estate and have had the privilege and responsibility of employing hundreds of people. But none of these accomplishments has been as empowering or life-changing as giving birth to my daughter.
Twenty years ago, while watching blood drip down my own freshly-sliced wrists, I chose to put the razorblade down, embrace life and face my fears. To this end, I’ve parasailed off of Alaskan mountains, fire-walked on hot coals and watched my life flash before my eyes as my lungs filled with water. But none of these moments terrified me as much as giving birth to my daughter.
I’ve experimented with psychedelic drugs and met an angel in a tunnel of blue light. I’ve explored ancient Myan ruins and the depths of a pyramid. I’ve chanted with priests, davened with rabbis, danced with Sufis, sat with Buddhist monks, sweated with shamans, studied with psychics and accepted a gift from a kahuna. But none of these experiences brought me as close to The Divine as giving birth to my daughter.
I live a juicy, passionate and engaged life. But I am not content. My heart pulses a message much more important than my own small existence: Women are strong. It proclaims. Birth is our rite, our connection to The Divine. Living this, speaking it and writing it is my purpose: an endless war-chant coursing through my veins and pouring through my fingertips to you.
