a birth story

puzzle-piecing what happened on July 25th

what’s in a birth story? details of events you don’t remember. the names of those of whom were present. the sounds. the deep guttural moans and groans that leads baby earthside. the time of day. where the sun was or how bright the stars were shining that night. the smiles and tears. the worry. the angst.

BIRTH is a portal. for the one who is giving birth and every other eye, and body bearing witness to life’s cosmic mystery.

growing up hearing my own birth story felt a lot like folklore. the versions varied depending on whose mouth it came out of. the time of day wasn’t ever exact. who was actually present and/or details of how long they were at the hospital was never ‘mathing’. in my little mind they sounded like numbers being thrown in the air landing all jumbled-up in my memory.

pops had so much pain around my birth mother that anytime I looked to him for some clarity of my BIRTH storytelling. he’d look down to me with those big sad honey brown eyes and long eyelashes and say…”I love you.” and just like that we were talking about some other thing- he was the talker and I the listener.

pops touring somewhere in Africa

pops was a storyteller. that was one of his many gifts (and even medicines) to “his people,” he’d always tell me. so when this man would speak his words would roar and dance like plays in front of your eyes you couldn’t do anything else but let it all soak in like water. feeding you in ways you didn’t know you needed. stories are and have always been spoken and shared and told over and over again. they hold lessons like they hold medicine.

as for my BIRTH story, I know I was born in bell, ca. i’m not too sure where we were living at the time, but I know it was either in Compton or Southgate. my grandmama lived in Southgate. pops had an apartment in Compton and my birth mother was living somewhere inbetween in solitude. I was told that her mum, my halmeoni, would sneak kimchi and food to my mum behind my hal-abeoji (grandfather) back because he had disowned her during her pregnacy with me because her husband was Black and she was due to bring another female into the world instead of a grandson like her ‘obedient’ sister did.

one of the only pictures I have of me and my mother together

its crazy to think I was born betwixt a Romeo and Juliet romance except only in this play, Juliet was pregnant and doesn’t kill herself, but instead she disappears out of thin air never to be seen or heard of again. like watching a falling star.

I am in no way bitter. I am bravely unpacking and pushing my every being to remember and pull together snapshot details of how I got here? what the first weeks of life was like for me? was I breast fed? skin to skin? and then what was the first year like for me? for us even, as a family? I do know I was only 9 months when she finally left after a couple of bounces and quickly because pops was begging her to stay, so they’ve told me.

I think of my own 3 babies when they were 9 months, they were only ever under my wing or on my breast, heart to heart at all times. that’s how we regulate there nervous systems. by matching heart and breathing rhythms. I just think of those tiny hands and newborn soft skin. the newborn SCENT is something otherworldly. even heaven scent. I cannot imagine leaving my babies at 9 months and never seeing nor be in contact ever again. the pain she must’ve felt. I also can’t imagine migrating from Korea and falling in love with a charismatic, big character, triple OG virgo smile Black man from Compton via Dallas. I can’t imagine having to make a choice of either remaining in the family or starting anew at 19 years old with your new husband, newborn baby girl and bloomy’s makeup counter gig.

pops and I at pawpaws house on Hobart blvd

I think the pain of not knowing my BIRTH story and how it started showing up as I got older. I found myself sometimes making straight up lies about my mothers whereabouts, especially at a younger age. as my life unfolded, the truth would leak in casual conversation. our casual conversation b lined into awkward silence, floor staring and some serious puppy-eyeing, my worst nightmare. naturally I would then redirect the conversation, trying to make it light by saying something like.. “oh, but I know she’ll always remember me bc I was a big baby…”. gross I know but looking back I now see that that joke was also me masking and trying to bury more of the immense amount of lostness and trauma I felt.

basically a 10 pound cherub with a moon shaped face. :) and full head of hair

maybe that’s why I became a birthworker after giving birth to my daughter. what’s interesting is that when I was about my daughters age, so around 6/7 years. my dad was a self taught man so he took reading and learning very seriously in our house. one day this man, my pops had me reading a full on thick, hard cover medical dictionary for what seemed to be all day! he was having one of his moments and he was feeling adamant about me learning medical terminology since I said I wanted to be a brain surgeon bc I love the brain. by the time he said I could get up and close the book, I remember thinking- meh this is not for more nor is my envirmmemt conducive to this level of concentration. I remember sitting on the floor in my room, eyes closed and really deeply asking what I should change my profession to.

my 6th birthday at my grandmamas house

I don’t know who or what I was asking this to but it was definitely something up there, this was how I felt. now that i’m reflecting back on it… it was kind of like the deep asking I’d ask again as my future self transitioning into my herbal journey. and I remember getting only 2 strong visuals of legs being up and holding new born babies. I remember thinking I wanted to be apart of the birthing of new life.

flash forward to present day and that’s exactly how its unfolding. my dreams soon began to slip away from me around the time my pops died. only to be rediscovered again along my journey after giving birth to my daughter and expanding into more than I could’ve ever imagined, after the birth of my second and third suns.

as a mother, one day I’ll share my birthing stories. for right now i’ll leave this here as a reminder that birth is sacred. it is our Rite of Passage. it is our power and direct connection to Source. we have the power to choose how we see fit: home birth, hospital birth, free birth, medicated, vbac, squatting, sitting, shitting, screaming, crying or in ecstasy. we have the power to choose how we feel comfortable bringing life into this world. and all eyes and bodies should be doing everything to protect and support this magical act of LOVE.

be well loved ones xx

synmia

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