Let me tell you about my mom.

She is, genuinely, a superhuman. A kindergarten teacher (which alone should qualify her for sainthood, hazard pay, and a permanent vacation) and also the kind of mom who will do and has done everything in her power to support her kids. 

She is next level. Like, the kind of mom I aspire to be.

So let me tell you a little bit about Shonia and her birth story with me. 

Here's what happened when she went into labor with me:

First,  I was 9 days late.

41 Weeks and 2 days. 

I was already making her wait. Already doing things on my own timeline. (Some things never change, apparently).

When labor finally decided to show up, it did so in the most unhinged way possible:

My mom went into labor after pushing a car up a giant hill. With my dad's help.

YOU READ THAT RIGHT.

This woman , full term, 9 days PAST full term,  was outside. Pushing a car. Up a hill. Like some kind of absolute legend who did not get the memo that she was supposed to be resting.

I don't know whether to be inspired or terrified. Honestly? Both. I am both.

And then once labor started?

She walked the hospital halls for countless hours before they would even admit her.

When it finally came time for the epidural?

It was too late. She tried to get one but it didn't work at. all. 

My dad, (sweet, Rory) nearly passed out. Multiple times.

And my mom, this kindergarten teacher, this superhero, this woman who had  pushed a car up a hill, brought me into the world after 16 hours of labor.

1:08pm. On a Tuesday in September.

The first grandaughter. The eldest daughter.

The one she did all of that for first.

I never fully appreciated what that meant until now.

I am the eldest daughter. The only granddaughter.

And I never once stopped to think about what it required of her to get me here.

Until I started sitting in rooms with people who are doing exactly what she did.

Watching you labor. Watching you make decisions in real time through exhaustion and adrenaline. Watching your partners  trying to hold it together, just like my dad.

Watching the moment a baby arrives and everything in the room shifts.

Watching a mother be born.

And thinking,  oh. Someone did this for me too.

I think about her every single time.

Here's what I know to be true:

Every single person on this earth has a birth story.

The barista who made your coffee this morning. Your boss. Your most intimidating professor. Your childhood best friend. The person in the checkout line. The Pope.

Every. Single. One.

Someone labored for them. Waited for them. Walked hospital halls for them. Held their breath, their partner's hand, a car door...for them.

Someone brought them into the world with everything they had.

And most of the time? Nobody ever asks about it.

So this Mother's Day, I want to give you an invitation:

Tell your birth story. Or ask a mother to tell you hers.

Not the highlight reel version. The real one. The two-weeks-late, car-up-a-hill, epidural-didn't-make-it version.

Because those stories matter. They deserve to be told. They deserve to be heard.

Your mom's birth story matters.

Your birth story matters. The one you're writing right now, or the one you're preparing to write.

And the experience of it? How you felt. Whether you understood what was happening. Whether you felt respected and held and seen?

That matters too. Not just in the moment. Long after.

So, Happy Mother's Day to every person who has ever brought someone into this world. 

You are legendary.

And Mom, if you're reading this: I love you. Thank you for having me so I can support so many other's on their journey to motherhood. 

I'm so glad you're my Mom. 

(Peep at my Mom and I doing our favorite past time activity: eating pastries. With a guest appearance by Rory in the background). 

Kyndrick 

Want to make sure your birth story is one you'll tell with pride? That's what I'm here for. Come hang out on Instagram or let's work together.