The Freedom Project

A good friend of mine often talks to me of the “curse of the empath”, we feel EVERYTHING and that being so we can see both sides of any situation even the situations in which we’ve been wronged.

In my healing journey, I have encountered a few potholes in the form of people I can’t seem to forgive. The trauma of my pregnancy holds many players and characters, most of which I have blocked from my life or ignored. As I move deeper and deeper into my commitment to heal I keep arriving at these potholes. The first few times, I gingerly stepped over the pothole without a second thought but lately these potholes have become harder to ignore and step over. The Universe is sending me a clear message, “deal with it”

Last week as I was busy preparing for my event, The Goddess Harvest, I ran face first into a rather large pothole, my old roommate who terrorized me during the early stages of my pregnancy. In the moment, I remained calm and proceeded to ignore her as I have been doing but her presence in my space and the space of my child who I feared miscarriage at the hands of her mistreatment triggered something deep inside of me. She reminded me of the Doula community that I felt abandoned by, I remembered my belongings being thrown out by my Doula roommate assisted by my conscience community, I felt the deep sense of dread and hopelessness I faced when looking for a Doula, the loneliness and disappointment. As I fell silently down that slope of remembering and the knot in my solar plexus grew bigger and harder I realized I had to do something. I could no longer just ignore it, I had to face it, forgive it, and move forward.

I’ve always been a writer and have found my catharsis in writing so I’ve decided to return to what I know for this next level of healing. Over the next month I will be writing letters of forgiveness and apology to those whom I’ve blocked out. I realize that every story has two sides so I will be using my “empath curse” to see my hurt from both my side and the side of the “other” I will be telling the most painful part of my story and releasing it back to the Universe with the intention of healing myself and if possible those relationships where they were left. For most I will be saying good bye with a clear and light heart and for others I will be asking for reconciliation. I don’t have any real expectation for communication or even reciprocation, what I do expect is to free myself of the weight of the trauma I experienced during my pregnancy in order to move forward on my healing journey. To be honest, I’m not even sure I will be sharing or sending the letters but I will be freeing myself of the weight of unforgiveness and victimization. Any and all of my reflection and revelation I will post about under the title of the Freedom Project. If there is anyone out there who needs the same process feel free to contact me so we may journey and support each other through!
– Trauma Mama
*****Trauma Mama is a Doula, Reiki Master, and Poet who resides in the Baltimore area of Maryland. She works with other mothers who have had traumatic birth experiences and others in general looking for healing via more natural healing modalities. She serves mothers during their birth experiences whether the birth is at home or in the hospital. She also conducts workshops on a range of topics. For more information on services please contact 443-889-0930****
Connect with Trauma Mama on Instagram @trauma_mama_healing_
Visit the website http://www.traumamamahealing.com

Goddess Harvest

About a month ago a friend and I talked about how we would love to gather all the queens and divine women in our community together for an event. We wanted to be something healing, something fun, something that honored the inner Goddess of those at the event, something that would be LIT. Out of our conversation the Goddess Harvest was born!

We have invited some wonderful guests and artists to help us celebrate this event. Yoga, Asa dance demos, vegan food, musical performances, poetry, meditation,vendors and much more! Our swag bags promise to be stuffed with goodies as well!

This is my personal invitation to my WordPress friends and followers to join us for Goddess Harvest on October 27th.

Click the link to register!

https://www.eventbrite.com/e/goddess-harvest-tickets-27660628685

Full circle Pennies

In a former life I studied Tantra. Outside of the popular view of its sexual implications, a lot of what I studied was about abundance and gratitude. The simple principle that what you are grateful for is attracted to you in larger supply. As I moved away from my studies in Tantra and into other energy healing schools of thought, I never let go of the teaching about gratitude.

After the birth of my son, sitting in the hospital with him alone and suddenly unemployed, I grasped for instances I could be grateful for. It was around this time I started to notice stray pennies in my travels throughout and traveling to the hospital. I immediately clung to each penny. I would pick the penny up and have a mini celebration thanking the Universe for sending me “free money” in my time of need. I took each penny home and carefully deposited it into my son’s piggy bank. Some days while my son was in the NICU those deposits would serve as my only reminder that I had something to be grateful for and often kept me from leaping off the ledge into a bottomless pit of depression. Soon the pennies started to correspond with our rough days in the NICU, I would often find a penny on a break from my son’s bedside with tears welling up in my eyes without fail I would find a penny. Those pennies became my signal to remain strong, that everything was going to be ok, they forced me to take stock in all the things I had to be grateful for. In the practice of law of Attraction and abundance those pennies were my guarantee that things were improving and I had all I needed and desired coming to me.

After my son was discharged, I still found pennies sometimes nickels and dimes and I still celebrated but some times they wouldn’t find themselves into my son’s “survival bank ” (as I began to call it to myself) instead they would end up at the bottom of my purse, swimming in the washing machine from being in my pockets, or piled on my night stand my little pennies from heaven.

A few weeks ago I took my son’s survival bank and placed it on my nightstand, really as a monument to his old room as he insists on sleeping in my room EVERY NIGHT. One day my son turned his attention to the bank and the pile of pennies next to it. He insisted that I help him put the pennies in the bank and as I watched his tiny fingers manipulate the coin to get it into the slot, I was overwhelmed with a sense of gratitude. How far had we come? How far away was that sad and dark time from our sunny and playful existence now? How much do we have to be grateful for? In my son’s natural and unwavering adventrurousness and inquisitiveness he reminded me of the very principle that got us through the hardest time of my life. In that moment, it was almost like being jolted out of a nightmare. All those memories were just that…memories. We made it through and here we were playing and learning in my bedroom before breakfast.

I look forward to telling my son the story of his tenacity and all the magical happenings that brought him through to help him become extraordinary. Right now I’m grateful. I’m excited about my son’s natural curiosity over piggy banks and the lessons he can learn based soley on the concept of saving and money. I’m relieved that he’s here and I’m anticipating my next moment of “oh my God we made it” I really look forward to making It through his current “no” stage lol

– Trauma Mama
*****Trauma Mama is a Doula, Reiki Master, and Poet who resides in the Baltimore area of Maryland. She works with other mothers who have had traumatic birth experiences and others in general looking for healing via more natural healing modalities. She serves mothers during their birth experiences whether the birth is at home or in the hospital. She also conducts workshops on a range of topics. For more information on services please contact 443-889-0930****
Connect with Trauma Mama on Instagram @trauma_mama_healing_

Party Ova Here!

About a week ago today I sat in my house while my son was being evaluated by a Physical Therapist. Given his prematurity and the fact he spent the first 6 months of his life just focused on surviving, most of his medical staff expected him to be delayed. Most of the people in my social circle believed the same thing. I still find myself fielding rather invasive inquiries about his development from those who only know me casually. I put my son on a time limit when we opted into the supplemental program to help with development, he had until age two. My main concern was the possibility of my son being treated and lumped into the developmentally delayed category and it following him into school. As an educator, sibling of an Autistic person, daughter of a special educator, and Black woman I am painfully aware of the traps and pitfalls of special education and how the system can fall short for students that need extra help. So we had until age two to correct his development.

I sat in my living room watching the Physical Therapist take my son through a number of tests and evaluations all while the older gentleman chatted with me about his background and regular pleasantries. I listened as he asked my son to execute a number of tasks and then quietly take notes next to beat boxes next to even neater paragraphs. At the end of the evaluation I held my breath as he tallied my son’s scores. The Physical Therapist looked at me and started to explain the results, my 20 month old was on track developmentally! I could have kissed him! Services that were already paused after a boundary issue with another therapist were cancelled all together! My baby! My baby!

My son sees two therapists weekly for an hour each, an Occupational Therapist and a Physical Therapist. Outside of those two hours I work with him almost exclusively with the help of his father and a play date from time to time. Most days it’s easy to feel like you haven’t practiced this skill or that skill or to over analyze the type of play he is engaging in and how it plays into his developmental and cognitive development but his discharge from the program is proof that we were doing something right. As a mom, its easy almost inevitable that you will feel like a hot mess that isn’t doing enough, the right way, at the right time but there are small moments when a little angel whispers to you that you’re doing alright and your child is lucky to have you. My son and his tenacity of spirit serves as my angel every time he clears a hurdle. I try not to put too much stock into “the numbers” and evaluations as development is largely flexible and measured on a rather relaxed scale, but when I’m being told that something is going right I take it since we live in a world that seems to mommy blame more than it should. Instead of someone complaining about my son’s hair, or demanding that he speak in full coherent sentences, or expecting him to do a double back flip into a somersault down the stairs (ok I’m being dramatic there), I heard that all the repetition and playing and positive intention and exploring actually helped! So I’m happy and am still reveling in the thought that we have one less weekly visitor and are that much closer to our goal of being service free by age 2! When did I have a toddler by the way? When did that happen? LOL

Manifesting Mama

I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting on the idea of my grind. What is my grind? How do I grind? Am I grinding enough? And I’ve come to the conclusion that this “grinding” represents a lack mindset to me. When I hear “grind” I literally think of stone against stone grinding up something into a powder. I think of sweat and exhaustion and while these things are noble in the pursuit of one’s passion, I have come to wonder if my bliss can be realized absent of “grind”. Hard work and dedication are definitely components of any successful venture but can I manifest instead of grind?
When thinking about my core beliefs, I was raised to view hard work as necessary to achieve any task worth achieving but as my mindset shifts and I learn more about the Law of Attraction, I realize that my thoughts are what influence my reality most instead of my actions. With this thought, I’ve begun to relax and not run myself into the ground in pursuit of my desires and instead allow and trust that my desires are flowing toward me. This I’m sure is a foreign thought to most new moms but what if it doesn’t have to be hard? What if focusing on what you want and feeling good about receiving it is enough? I’m relatively new to this Law of Attraction way of thinking and in fact I am combating thoughts of guilt at even considering a life of ease without tireless labor as I type but what if all the energy I have needs simply to be put into believing I will have what I want?
During this retrograde time, I have been putting a lot of effort into keeping my thoughts clear and unobstructed by other people’s opinion of me and my surroundings and I have found an ease to life that I have not experienced before. I’ve been able to manifest a number of my desires by simply being grateful and expectant of them, (this has taken a great deal of mental energy at times) including new clients, increased business, and fruitful partnerships. Life has indeed gotten easier as I have spent more energy on thinking myself successful and I’m flow. I am more than greatful to be as to be a student and mom with my own schedule and support system as I grow my business simultaneously. Is it magic? Have I finally suffered enough? Am I breaking the cycle of poverty? Or does this thinking stuff actually work? 😉

For now these are just simply the late night musings of a tired but blissful mama. Blessings to you all! Oxox
– Trauma Mama

*****Trauma Mama is a Doula, Reiki Master, and Poet who resides in the Baltimore area of Maryland. She works with other mothers who have had traumatic birth experiences and others in general looking for healing via more natural healing modalities. She serves mothers during their birth experiences whether the birth is at home or in the hospital. She also conducts workshops on a range of topics. For more information on services please contact 443-889-0930****
Connect with Trauma Mama on Instagram @trauma_mama_healing_

Poo poo Affirmations

Something has always scared me about potty training, I’m not sure what but it’s always made me feel like I was in for a losing battle. So it was with clenched teeth and Butt that I purchased my son his first potty seat. I wanted to put it off but after watching my son take off his diaper and pee all over my pillows, I decided it was time. I of course opted for the throne that sang after each successful visit but still something in me had me feeling apprehensive about our latest journey.
“What do you have to be afraid of? You literally willed your son into good health” a Facebook friend reminded on one of my statuses.

Right! What was I afraid of? After sitting down for a minute to actually ponder the question, it all began to flow. I’m my world…our world my efforts belonged to catching up and maintaining Healing. If I were to step out of crisis recovery mode and pay attention to something as normal as potty training, where would all my hard work go? How would I got everything? And then, just like that it hit me…again. Maybe I didn’t have to focus so much on catching up. Each of my son’s doctors and therapists seem routinely aghast at his progress. At an outing with my son, a mother asked,

“How old is he”

“He’s 19 months”

I answered

“He was a preemie so he’s a little bit”

I added almost automatically

“Oh, seems that he’s caught up”

She responded matter of factly

“Caught up”?

You mean that all that work has paid off and I can stop focusing on hard stuff like his survival and focus on getting him to poop in a pot in my room? No shit!?!? Huh! “Well I guess I should get to it”, I thought to myself as I set up his potty.
I have always believed in the power of Words and thought, so much so I abstained from the word “death” “dying” “dead” etc until I was sure those words didn’t pertain to my son. I corrected doctors when they referred to him as being “very sick”

“He’s not sick! He’s early.” I protested

I refused to talk to doctors unless they referred to my son’s challenges, I made sure everyone knew and understood the meaning and power of his name, and I wrote empowering words all over his islet. This situation would call for similar tactics.

First, a song!

Successfully potty training was written, freestyled really, as I introduced my son to his new endeavor

“We are..

Successfully potty training

Sittin’ on the pot in the Morn’in

Sittin’ on the pot in the afternoon

Sittin’ on the pot in the evening

Cuz we’re

Successfully potty training

Successfully potty training”

*B girl stance*

2nd was dumping all that negative thought and speech. I know enough to know that what we say, we think and what we think, we feel and what we feel is real. So out with the “Oh Lord this gon’ be so hard”. We can do this, we are doing this because my son is a big boy bawse and he does big boy bawse things!

3rd, I’m just letting it happen, taking our time and celebrating wherever possible. So yes, I mopped up a puddle of urine in my kitchen yesterday after my son walked through it and slipped (yuck!), but he also sat on the potty for 2 minutes without trying to get up (We cheered for that) and today he spread his legs to pee, sure he peed in his diaper but that was a sure sign he’s getting it.

This experience is foreign to me as I’m used to the crisis of things and not being able to enjoy the simple normalcy of child rearing that I miss some times but I am so grateful that potty training is JUST potty training and I’m sure we’re up for the challenge. Now, my friends declaration that it would only take two weeks to potty train makes sense, we’ve already made it through the hard stuff, of course we’re going to beast it on the potty 😎😉

– Trauma Mama

Some days

There are days when I want someone to step into my shoes just so I can watch them crumble under the pressure. The pressure of normal mommy stuff compiled with the rich psychosis of being a NICU survivor mom, single mom, stay at home mom, and a business owner. My bets are that most can’t do it. Between the judgements, lack of resources, absent village, and guilt (constant and ferocious guilt), there is a small human that depends on me for his every need. I am expected to be a gracious, organized, and an engaged host to what seems to be a parade of outside providers for my son when most days I just need to use the PT time to take a quick shower and the OT time to do some dishes and figure out lunch. I dread the rain as it means any walks to the grocery store or any errands for that matter are on hold. At the end of the day there is always a list that is a million tasks long that did not get accomplished and I wail at my myself silently for the failure. I watch other mothers and peers be amazing, unveiling new projects and products while I muddle through the list of things I need to complete in order to complete one project as I wonder how I will make sure that my branding and marketing is in place with a negative zero budget. Committed to my healing, I go to my therapist to hash out all the nuances of my trauma and I realize the difference between myself and my counterparts, I am isolated and without a village, no grandparents to take my child from time to time, no siblings to be my sounding board, no long term friends that know me deep enough to know what I need, I look up and realize my village is a ghost town of my expectations. Instead there is an ever ready and insatiable social media audience of community members that are obliged to view myself and my life as an unfolding drama rather than as what it is, a lonely mother reaching out for support and commonality. Instead there too is a small group of new friends that emerged from my crisis that I lean on way too much. A circle (square really) of four individuals who I seldom get to just hang out with, less their constant help of some sort.

“Stop complaining! You’re a mom! Suck it up” I hear from every corner of my mind reinforced by the media, friends, peer mothers, and men in my life. The idea of suffering loneliness to the point of breaking down seems to be a common expectation and almost mommy badge of honor. “Fall in line with the generations of suffering mothers behind you who have neglected themselves, their dreams, and their sanity for the sake of raising their child. It is as if I can hear a shame chorus respond to me and my complaints and cries for help.

“Welp, this is what you wanted”

“You should have been more careful”

“this is what single motherhood looks like”

Well, to all of that I say “Fuck this”

I was talking with a new friend today about the myth of community. When I found out I was pregnant and got over the shock and dismay (there was dismay) . I felt kind of excited. I felt comforted by the fact that my community, the one in which I had sown so much into would be there to support and help me. The doula sisters I had gained would help nurture me through this, my spiritual community would keep me lifted and surrounded by love. What I never thought to consider was that for US community is at best a nice utopian idea that we would like to embody one day. Community is a myth to many who need it most. And as I type I can hear passive aggressive rebuttals being slid across the table my way,

“That is so sad that she doesn’t experience the community I feel”

“I see community everyday”

When I speak of community, I am not speaking of some exclusive group comprised of only those who have been deemed worthy of support and camaraderie, I’m talking about community where everyone had a place and position and can play a role in the balance of society. I’m talking about community, village, we are one…that kind of stuff. Not this exclusive “we are enlightened enough” political club that seems to have taken the place of community. I could go into how fractured the black community is and how we are still taking steps to unravel and heal our past in this country but that would lead into a whole other topic and that is not what I’m talking about right now.

I may not have been so shocked by the utter abandonment of my perceived community had a more realistic title been placed on it, some thing more suitable like ” the gatekeepers” or ” the examples of appropriate black powerness used to scare the whites” or “the audience”

As someone committed to healing, I have a hard time sharing with others that I need help, that I’m tired, and I don’t feel like it but some days that is exactly how I feel. Motherhood is a tightrope walk of what is expected, what feels right, and what you actually end up doing. With doctors in my ear condemning many decisions that I make to keep my son as intervention free as I can, and a community that I feel very isolated from, I find myself depending wholly on my will to survive and thrive with and for my son.

But at the end of the day, I remember I’m a bad ass and I am doing it. Remaining committed to my healing process and open to my own power is what keeps me moving forward. I’m plugging away and can’t quit. I’m disappointed in the idea of community that was shattered as I moved through my pregnancy and motherhood but I’m encouraged as I move closer to my reality and begin to build on what is as I let go of what never was in the first place.

What I learned about the Social Services and the Community Village ideal during my year avoiding Welfare

mom and child

If you pay attention to the stereotype that is perpetuated in mainstream media, I may fit the description of a welfare mother. Single, black, unemployed, mother of one. What you don’t see is that I am world traveled, hold multiple degrees, and am extremely driven. You know who else didn’t see those things about me? The caseworkers at social services didn’t see it either and it was because of their inability to see past my circumstance and their disdain for the public that I quickly opted to say “no thank you” to any government help. After spending hours in the NICU, emotionally and physically exhausted, I had little patience to deal with humiliating and dehumanizing treatment outside of the stress of the unfolding drama in the hospital with my son. After an especially stressful visit to social services where I was told that a savings account meant I wasn’t entitled to help, I decided to figure this financial instability thing out on my own. In the year that I have decided to avoid social services, I’ve learned a lot about community, the welfare system, and the politics of poverty. To be honest, there were a few moments when I thought for a second that bowing to the system would be for the best but my free spirit has yanked me back from the ledge of “fuck it” every time.

When I was in college, I wrote a paper about how the welfare system was not meant to help and actually did more harm then good, requiring recipients be completely dependent on the system rather then providing temporary relief to regain independence and financial stability. After reading Sista Souljah’s” No Disrespect” that summer, I had decided that welfare was an intentional trap for poor people. As far as I knew, my mother had never received government assistance to help her during our childhood despite just scraping by on a teachers salary. The people I advocated for were unfortunate, impoverished,and far removed from any fathomable reality of my own.

During peer review of my scathing criticism of the American welfare system, I proudly read through the anonymous feedback of my fellow classmates, when I got to the last comment, “You’re going to be on Welfare one day so don’t be so critical” The comment scribbled in black ink across the back of my paper knocked the wind out of me completely. I felt violated and angry and powerless. I felt even more powerless when I took my paper to my Professor after class to complain and she nervously brushed it off. “I would NEVER be on welfare! How dare they” I seethed as I walked to my car to leave campus that day.

Fast forward more than a decade later and I found myself sitting in my local Social Services office, I had almost forgotten about all the research I had done years before and sat expectant that I would receive the help I needed. My experience of having a small premature child, not being able to work, and a being college educated taxpayer surely meant I would be able to get just a little bit of help. In my mind, I was still not one of “those people” that I had written about in my paper so many years earlier. I was different and so was my situation. So I sat in the office in my slacks and light blouse with my locs tied neatly back expecting to be treated specially. I was sore from surgery and really should not have been out of the house but I convinced myself that I would be quick. “You need to apply for childcare before when your son gets home” friends insisted, so there I was. I sat in the overcrowded and bustling office, listening for my number. First up was substance abuse, “substance abuse?” “what?”. Evidently I needed to submit to a urine screen before being allowed to move on through the process. The caseworker spoke to me for a few minutes and after looking at me quizzically, waved my through. “Umm do I need a cup or something?, I asked confused. “No, I’m sending you to the work program” the caseworker answered. In front of the work program caseworker I applied to be excused from the work program explaining my current need to be home and heal from an especially traumatizing birth and subsequent three surgeries following the initial birth. I presented my paperwork and was waved onto child support. In order to qualify for childcare vouchers I needed to report my son’s father for child support “but what if I’m not interested in involving the courts to handle child support amounts? what if we were planning on going before a lawyer or mediation to work out the details?”

“You have to go to court before you get the vouchers, you must cooperate with the courts”

It was in this moment that I realized I wasn’t special, I was being policed, forced into a system I wasn’t interested in to be able to send my son off to child care whenever he was released from the hospital. I had already been denied food-stamps twice once while I was homeless and pregnant because I had a job and again after my son was born because I had a IRA account. “They really make it a full time job” a friend counseled. But if social services is a full time job in itself where I’m not allowed to have any of my own means of stability before getting help, how was I supposed to regain stability and independence after a freak circumstance? I wasn’t. Either I was fortunate enough to have family and friends to help while I rebuilt or I was doomed to the welfare cycle or had to figure out a way to cheat the system, it was one of these three options or to simply struggle until there was nothing left. I left the office after spending an entire day talking to caseworkers and decided there would have to be another way. There had to be a way to be remain free while I regained my footing, I had no idea that what would follow after my decision would prove to be the most difficult and eye opening year I have ever experienced in my life.

I learned a couple of things during my year avoiding welfare that will stay burned in my mind forever.

The welfare system is not about you, it is not meant to help you, it is intended to encourage dependence on the system while condemning you for using the system. While most people who have never actually accessed any of the services available through social services, view it as a bridge between hard times the system is really a road to nowhere. The assistance that is provided could never help pay to survive unless ALL services are accessed at the same time i,e food stamps, housing, childcare etc. If you get a job to offset the help you are getting, your services will be stopped or reduced drastically placing you back in the same place of need that lead to applying for services in the first place.
There is no Village.The Village that many in the black community talk about is really a euphemism for smaller subset of “tribes” which tend to be exclusive and ignore the need of the larger community in favor of personal interests. Those who do not have support systems in place already and are not viewed as valuable to the Tribe are relegated to the “less fortunate” at best. The division that has been bred in the black community continues with the stratification of grouping and accessibility to help from the community. Also the Village is eerily absent when accountability within the community is concerned
Welfare takes the Responsibility off of natural support systems. Despite my continuous employment from age 14 and my willingness to barter and exchange goods for services and vice versa, the large majority of what I believed was my support system shunned me passively knowing my situation, counseling me to apply for assistance. This statement was a passive condemnation of my life choices and very quickly allowed those close to me to ignore my hardship and characterize me as a “low life, moocher” This reluctance to work together to hold each other up is exacerbated by the fact that many Americans are desperately close to their own trip to social services. Survival has pushed everyone into a bubble of hoarding. It breads a culture of lack, not just for the one struggling the most but for the others who surround that individual. Am I saying that I should be able to abandon any inclination to work so my family and friends can take care of me? No! I am saying that the false “cure all” notion that many of us hold about social services is wrong and keep us form reaching out and checking on loved ones who are struggling and keeps the cycle of poverty going, not only for the individual but for our community as a whole.
Survival outside of the system is possible…difficult but possible. “Freedom ain’t free” it ain’t easy either. In America, our institutional systems are set up to create a certain stratification of the population, attempting to live outside of any level of the stratification is very taxing (pun intended) and difficult at times. If it is necessary to be within the system, my advice would be to put yourself on a time limit and only access services a few at a time if possible. I am not naive and would never tell anyone to put themselves and their family in danger by not accessing entitlements, every situation is not the same. I am telling you to arm yourself with a plan, exit strategy and build your support systems as strong as you can. I have been lucky in that other challenges have turned into opportunities for income and gambles and risks I have taken have proven fruitful. Even with my luck, the road to shying away from social services has indeed landed me right back into the office I was running from but thankfully I have been able to avoid the courts being involved in my family structure and family decisions.
The Culture of Poverty is real and best served when our people ignore it. “Why don’t you get a job here!” A case manager, recognizing my level of education after asking for it during one of many surveys, responded with an invitation to apply for a social service job. And had I had family who I trusted to take care of my son while I was at work, I may have entertained it as a means to get out of the hole I was in but alas I did not have such support. And childcare, medical childcare at that would have required child care vouchers which would have required child support cases which would have required…you get it. I was not then nor am I now interested in being monitored in such a way, so I smiled and completed the Food stamp application that was later accepted and then revoked. The circus of services is quite frankly exhausting, to be treated like a lower class citizen is demeaning no matter what your socio-economic status. The caseworkers that are over worked and underpaid tend to be nasty in anticipation of nasty interactions with those applying for services and overall exhaustion. People get desperate, they feel desperate and they act thusly. This desperation follows you home, stands with you in line at the grocery store, sits with you and eats at you. This is the culture of poverty. The mother that is too tired and exhausted from working to interact with her child, the family that eats crap in food deserts because that’s all that’s available and is the cheapest. Service organizations pop up headed primarily by Whites to serve the “less fortunate” while employing blacks and people of color, at a pay rate just above the living wage, to interact one on one to the “less fortunate”. The less fortunate are labeled and treated as such as a the service workers way of reminding themselves that they are not them, however close to “them” they may be. And so it grows and the stratification is once again reinforced.
We are powerful and capable of systematic change TOGETHER. How have I survived? I have survived by other people who believed in me. I have a small circle of friends that may drive me to the store or watch my son or drop off things I may need that have been sitting in their basement. I have people like me, who are free or endeavoring to be free who value the idea of community. Is it a strain at times? Yes! Do feel that I am leaning to heavily on them sometimes? Yes! Do I retreat to figure things out on my own so I don’t burn my friends out? Yes! Do I barter and serve as I am asked and can? Oh hell yes! We do this together. I find myself surrounded and supported by people that are endeavoring to live outside of the system, people who have said “this ain’t for me, I gotta find another way”. I have a small group of people around me that pass around clothes, food, resources, opportunities, and CHILDCARE like its money! We ebb and flow and we fit. What would happen if the five people I have around me had five more people around them and five around them and so on? We would be a Village of FREE citizens, making it work and how wonderful would that be?
Manifestation is real and should be taught widely. The most important lesson I have learned about the system is that it is dependent in my non belief in my own power as a creator. The culture of poverty itself is a mirage to distract us from our own power of creation and manifestation. I can’t begin to count the times this year that I have stopped my fear with some deep breathing and visioning, affirmations and positive thoughts. Hippy and unrealistic you may say but this year has taught me it works! Once I discovered my flow and remembered to stay in it, the puzzle pieces of my life seemed to float together. So what am I to believe? That bad food, desperate situations, social isolation, and lack of resources is NOT by design to keep me dependent on the system? Well, I will let you make your own assumptions. What if we were taught from a young age about “the flow” and manifestation, positive thought, and abundance mindset? I would venture a guess that the system we are currently being made to operate within would not have much of a leg to stand on.

This year has been tough but also eye opening. I have experienced anger, disappointment, shame, exhaustion, and loneliness but also hope, and triumph, a shedding of all that is old and lord knows that its been painful but birth and rebirth is messy and I am ready to continue to grow and blossom on my own terms. I invite you to do the same, whether your terms are mine or not.

-Trauma Mama

Trauma Mama Healing Has a Website!

We are pleased to announce the launch of our website! Trauma Mama is accepting Reiki and Doula clients! We also have an array of products for you to buy and gift or keep for yourself! Be sure to check us out and sign up for our mailing list!

http://analabram.wix.com/traumamamahealing

Mama We Made It!

It was about a year ago this week that my son was unhooked from his monitors and discharged from the hospital. After the longest 6 months of my life, it was about a year ago, that I took him home with my entire bag of nerves. I had waited for that moment, picked out a going home outfit, prayed and visualized walking out that hospital with him and it was in that moment that I was utterly terrified. There would be no beeping machines to help me keep track of his vital signs, no team of doctors convening at his bedside daily, no nurse tending to him 24 hours a day. There was just me. A jumble of nerves and uncertainty, beaten down by months of nonstop turmoil. He was in my arms, then in the back seat of my car, then in HIS room, his room that had waited for him for months. I sat there in his room, down the hall from mine on the blue rug and I just looked at him, it was so quiet and…normal. I had become accustomed to being told what to do and when to do it by nurses. In the hospital, I was a visitor that needed permission to do even the simplest things at first, like change a diaper. I had to assert my position as mother to all who took care of him. I had to repeat that I was the “decider” to countless medical staff members and here we were, just us. No one to prove myself to. It was quiet and deafening all at the same time. My father cooked me lunch and a friend ran out to fill his prescriptions for me while I sat with my son in his room, down the hall from mine. We were tethered to his blue oxygen machine that spit out hot air into the hallway. I snapped pictures of him and just stared at him for that first day. There was no way to know what this year was to look like. Looking back, I don’t think I would have believed you if you had tried to tell me anyway.

This last year has been a fury of emotions; fear, joy, exasperation, loneliness, love, exhaustion, hope, and tenacity to name a few. I have felt the pangs of guilt ride up my spine and make a home on my back many days and others I have felt like an all powerful , all knowing Goddess. I have been peed on, drooled on, squealed at and passed out on. I have remained grateful. PTSD curled its grip around my mind and people have either fled from me or clung to me but through this entire year the tenacity of spirit has inspired me to keep pushing. My son started walking about a week ago. That’s a big deal! He smiles at me and gabbers to me in our secret language that only he knows. From 1 lbs 5 oz to his current weight he has thrown off exclusive use of all of his interventions including his oxygen, meds and feeding tube. We no longer see three doctors weekly and he no longer relies on a nurse to visit our house at all. He’s happy and healthy and full of life and joy. To that, I let out a sigh of relief. There has been a lot of loss and heartache along the way but redemption and healing too. My son is a gifted child who brings all that we need to us and pushes all that doesn’t serve us away. I am proud to be his mother and I am grateful for this year. I made it! We made it! There is much more for us to do! Barriers to break, Mountains to conquer, adventures to have! Today, I am patting myself on the back as I tend to do often.

This year, I have battled my own demons of PTSD and struggled to regain a sense of normalcy. We have actually settled into our own new normal. I have remained committed to helping my son progress and we have suffered a bit financially for it but ask me if I would change our life, ask me if I would go back and do it differently and I will say “HELL NAW” Miss Sophia style! Overall, I have had time to process the shift in consciousness that is motherhood and to begin the intricate healing process that is healing from traumatic birth. This last year has seen countless tears, loss of friends and community, new relationships and friends, laughs, disappointments, worries, and triumphs. In this year I have experienced a birth of myself, grown in ways that I’ve never imagined and become scarily content to just sit with a little person draped across my chest. I have ached at the thought of not being good enough, with constant questions about if I’ve read enough, played enough, gone over the right skills, supported the correct behavior, and encouraged the right habits. The truth is, I don’t know. I am truly unsure if I’m doing enough but I know every day I do my best to be the best mother I can be.

The random emergency room visit reminds me of how blessed I am to have him with me and I am regularly thankful to have been chosen by him to be his mother. His smile has come to be something I crave throughout the day and I take delight in the emerging toddler behavior, he currently can’t see me leaving a room without losing his shit! It’s really great and frustrating at the same time.

In the end, I feel like I deserve a case of wine and a beach getaway even though, I probably wouldn’t enjoy being without my munchkin. To any mothers that may be reading this who are just embarking on the most daunting experience they can fathom, please hold on. Find someone to talk to, be gentle with yourself and stay positive and hopeful. You are doing a great job, keep it up!

Happy Home day Lovebug! Now give that piece of paper to mommy! What did you just put in your mouth? Come here!

Cheers!!!!

-Trauma Mama