“The thing you are most afraid to write. Write that.” —Nayyirah Waheed, Salt Let me start by saying, I used to judge women who said they had postpartum depression. Maybe it was because the few stories I had heard were
Women ask me nearly every day if I have children. They ask not because I am a 38-year-old woman living in the Midwest, which frankly would be motivation enough for most inquirers. They ask because I am a midwife. I
Twenty-five years ago, I lived in a quaint fishing village down the coast from Puerto Vallarta, Mexico for six months each year. At the time it didn’t have electricity, phones, roads, or cars—you could only get there by boat. Each
There it was, my grandmother’s 1950s Singer Featherweight sewing machine, glaring at me. Its recently refurbished black frame shone with grease from the repairman’s rags. I wanted to sew, but at the same time, I really didn’t. I had put
It was an ordinary Friday afternoon and my phone vibrated quietly in its plastic case. My mom’s photo showed on the screen and I excitedly answered. That excitement quickly turned to dread as Mom asked if I was sitting down.
I long to be a mother. I am a mother. I had an abortion. I experienced my abortion as an urgent, terrifying, and often beautiful initiation into the power of the feminine. As a woman free and whole unto myself,
Many memoirs have covered the terrain of grief, but Nora McInerny Purmort’s does so with more sass, swearing, and style than most. For a book that chronicles the author’s experience losing her husband, father, and unborn baby all within two
My brain is in that mushy, fresh-out-of-ceremony state: I just spent four nights dancing under the full moon with 200 women from all over the world as a part of an ancient Mexica rite. We fasted, we prayed, we sang
As I round the corner of my 39th week of pregnancy and realize that I’ve spent more than eight months in this unique and ever-changing state, I’m struck by just how much I’ve learned. Aside from all the books and
The theme for this month’s practice series is WHOLENESS. Winter solstice is the longest night of the year, the time when darkness reigns supreme and the moon rules the sky. Throughout the ages, it has been a significant time of ritual,
For her junior prom, my daughter Katie selected a persimmon-colored, silky, draping, hugging dress. This launched a rather protracted discussion about—yes—underwear. "So," I casually commented one day, "when do you have some time so we can run out and
My fingers slide through the soft waves of my mother’s charcoal grey hair and she leans into my touch. I know her head by heart, and I massage her scalp before lightly scraping my nails over the sensitive skin. When
Dear Anne, I’ve been a fan of yours for years, and your writings have helped sustain me in my own life journey. So I was confused to see your recent tweets making disparaging remarks about Caitlyn Jenner and her gender
Imagine a woman who is connected to the rhythm of moonbeams and rivers, who knows her body like the fish knows the tides and the primrose knows the night. Imagine a woman who welcomes change with a full heart, knowing
