In it.

It has been almost exactly 2 years since my last post. I am curious about why I have not posted as much as I did when I first began this blog, and the conclusion I have come to is that this process of changing careers—including the risk, fear, identity shift, and knowledge-building that comes with it—has been for me a fairly internal process. It has been internal, I think, because it is changing me, and I am watching those changes from the inside, without the desire to process externally to a larger audience. The fear associated with this major change also carries with it a sense of shame and humility that I have wanted to protect. The shame comes from a fundamental worry about getting it wrong, and the humility comes from a fundamental awareness that—after many years cultivating expertise in one professional area—I am now a raw beginner.

While it does not feel appropriate to delve into the darker parts of the anxiety, I do believe that I am not the only human who has encountered this tension of being in two disparate places at once: feeling the pain of fear while feeling deeply fortunate for the opportunity to feel that fear. I would guess that any large risk that we take in this life to cultivate happiness, make a demonstrable contribution, and undergo personal metamorphosis comes with it the pain of change and the gratitude of having the opportunity to do it in the first place. Just think of the phenomenal humans who have made an impact on this earth. And, sure, the pain can overwhelm the gratitude, and that sucks because it means you've lost perspective on the fact that you chose to take the risk and that it is worthwhile. But if you can keep your focus on the fortune and your purpose, you can put a foot in front of the other and keep going.

And that's what I do. The labor and delivery semester calls upon me to unfold in a hospital environment—new literacy, surrounded by experts, emergencies, labor management, the mother-baby unit, sociopolitical tensions, my age, my previous experiences, my lack of knowledge, my hopes. While I am adulting in a variety of areas in my life, in the clinical setting I am an adolescent who doesn't belong, wearing scrubs that are too big for me, conscious of my weird hair, fearful of the next oral quiz my preceptor will give me, worried that the nurses will see right through me to my lack of experience. I have memories of sitting in my quiet office, a tenured professor grading student papers behind a closed door, gentle music playing, the poster of John Cusack in Say Anything that I kept taped behind my door for just me. And while in the middle of getting another question wrong or wrestling with my heart to be more assertive with my nascent skills, I feel a little feel of wanting to be sitting in that chair. And then I immediately remember that I wanted to be with—viscerally with—humanity in this capacity, and even with a racing heart I tough out the day.

I keenly remember being a good professor: kind, organized, an advocate for students, graceful, collaborative, understanding, compassionate. It's comforting to remember fondly that I was all of those things. In the distance, I see myself as a midwife: kind, organized, an advocate for patients, graceful, collaborative, understanding, compassionate. I see it, and I feel it deep down. But the ruddiness of my shame-heated cheeks, the palpitations, the awkwardness, the feeling of being an imposter, and the deep memories of my many years of perfectionism and avoiding mistakes causes me pain on this journey. I cannot hold up the pure idea of perfection that I became so attached to before taking on this challenge. If I do, I won't prevent failure—I will fail. That perfectionistic ideal is a pain-maker of its own kind, and my soul must have known that it was time for it to end—I would have run my parenting right into the ground if I had kept standing on that tiny little pin of compulsion.

So, here's where birth becomes another metaphor for change. In the physiological birthing process, we need to talk with pregnant people about the difference between pain and suffering. Although labor can feel like we're being destroyed—and sometimes it comes close—a healthy labor does not have to cause suffering. The pain is symptomatic of the productive engine that brings a human forth. A child. Love, tenderness, growth, amazement. This journey is a birth for me. The pain is heavy and intense—the letting go of habits and perceptions and previously-held beliefs feels like shearing tissue away. But it is not suffering. It is the productive engine that will bring forth a midwife. Love, tenderness, growth, amazement.