Before We Hold Others, We Hold Ourselves: The Quiet Devotion of Doing Our Own Work First

There’s a quiet kind of stewardship that doesn’t begin with polished Instagram captions - it begins in the mirror, in the kitchen, in our work, and in an actual or psychological storm.

As a doula, I hold space for others through their most vulnerable transitions. I remind mothers that they are safe, even when everything around them feels unsteady. To be a steady presence, I need to practice and embody those same vulnerabilities every day.

Moving to Seattle is going to stretch me in ways I can already feel. I’m now confronting one of my long-held sensory struggles: being half wet. The rain. Doing dishes without gloves. Dog baths. A liminal, messy in-between. I’ve always needed to be either completely submerged or completely dry. Anything in between brings up discomfort so visceral it sends me running for cover.

I’ve realized that if I want to witness others through their process, I have to sit in my own - metaphorically and physically. I need to learn how to stay when it’s uncomfortable, how to ground myself when the water drips and the discomfort rises. How to breathe in the middle of the rain and not after it has passed.

Being an authentic guide isn’t about having it all together, it’s about being honest about where I’m still healing and choosing to show up anyway. I want to model regulation by doing the work and not only recommending it. If I ask a client to surrender to the waves of labor or the unpredictability of postpartum, I need to know what it feels like to meet my own waves with compassion, too.

I’m practicing integrating by standing barefoot in the rain and letting water touch my skin in a way that once would’ve sent me spiraling. I’m choosing to see nature as a gift. She will not meet me in the middle as she is relentless and constant; inviting me to meet myself in the middle of her precipitation.

I’m not forcing comfort, I’m welcoming discomfort as a teacher. Life is already uncomfortable enough, and lessening the trigger, working through it, is an act of self-trust. I’m letting the element soften me. This practice welcomes integration, somatic healing, and the quiet moment of saying: I’m finally ready to hold space for this part of myself, too.

Seattle’s rain is constant, and to create synergy, I need to embody nature. I’m walking into the storm.

To anyone else doing quiet, internal work: I see you. You don’t have to be fully healed to be proud. If you’re showing up with honesty and intention, I’m proud of you.

This is the kind of interior conversion that changes things. Don’t expect perfection and practice while showing up for yourself. You only need to be present and real with yourself.

If you’ve ever felt overwhelmed by the very things that seem so small to others, know this:

Your body is worthy of kindness.

Your discomfort is not a failure.

Your healing is your own.

photo taken by a prior nanny kid: A very uncomfortable me in Sedona, Arizona.