As a first generation Chinese-American I grew up witnessing first-hand how stigma could prevent someone from sharing their experiences, especially stories with trauma and vulnerability.

Then, in May 2017, I submitted a final thesis on Manhattan’s Chinatown. At the time, I was interested in recording oral histories of resilience among generations of Chinese-American immigrant families.

The first interview I did was with my own mother — the story of her journey as a young girl from Hong Kong to San Francisco’s Chinatown by boat. Over the past few years I’ve developed a deeper understanding of her, and her life before me. I believe that my thesis work was actually inspired by my desire to understand my mother better. And one beautiful outcome of that work was how it made a safe space to connect with her.

A year later, my world began to intersect with birth work. During my first doula training, I thought about how my experiences with oral history work could make me a better doula. In my very first birth I saw how often the narrative or expectations of others were projected on to a birthing client.

I listened to the feelings and needs of my client, reaffirming her ability to reclaim her own narrative as it unfolded. After the birth we recounted her birth story from her perspective, one with both hardship and joy. While I did not record her story, I thought about how important it was to move through the world of birth work with an understanding that all around us are individuals holding stories.

Before entering birth work, I didn't often think about the impact of my own birth story, or the opportunity to hear stories about birth from my mother's perspective.

I have just one sibling, an older brother. Jordan and I were both premature, born in a hospital in Berkeley, California. My mother however, is one of five children, all brought into this world under varying circumstances, which she told me:

“My mother gave birth to me in Hong Kong in an apartment with a midwife, but my older brothers were born in houses in the village of Hoi Ping. It was common to have older women from the village around with experience birthing babies. These women did not have any license or medical training and traveled from village to village. We had an absentee dad — he was living in Brazil until we emigrated to the USA, so my mother birthed without his support.”

I asked my mom if she remembered feeling supported in her births or if she held any fears:

“My only fear in birth was having another premature baby, since Jordan was so premature. With Jordan my water broke at only 31 weeks. I burst into tears when they told me that his lungs might not be developed, along with a host of other issues. He was in the hospital for three weeks after his birth; it was hard seeing him so small and frail. They had to gavage his milk (feeding him through tubes) because he was too weak to suck. It was hard seeing him in an incubator.”

She recalled the specifics of my birth:

“I found out I was pregnant with you when I was working at Planned Parenthood. My coworkers were so excited they ran up and down the hallways sharing the news. I kept the pregnancy kit and showed it to your dad that night. Your due date was May 1,  1993. I came down with pneumonia mid-January, and because I had previously had a premature baby, my doctor put me on bed rest until the birth. On April 7, my water broke, I called your dad and he came home mid-afternoon. I was all prepared and we went to Alta Bates Hospital. I rested for awhile and at 4:30 am I woke up to feel my contractions were a little stronger. They wheeled me into the delivery room to check me. I ask the nurse for my epidural shot, but she told me that I was already 5 cm and wasn’t a candidate for it. I remember being quite upset about this. Her answer, 'Don’t frown, it will bring wrinkles.' Of course I was upset.  The main nurse told me to start pushing, and fifteen minutes later at 5:45 am, you were born on April 8, 1993.”

In my mother's story, I can see that in both of her pregnancies and births are stories both painful and tender, and that she demonstrated so much tenacity and strength. I never considered the weight of the emotions my mother might still be carrying from these experiences, and how it might feel to bring it up all these years later. When I asked her what it was like to retell these stories she said, “I am happy to share; it is less hard now that you are all grown up, but I do remember the fears and emotions as if it were yesterday.”

I often write and share my own oral histories, too — stories of personal trauma and transformative life experiences. I have participated in podcasts on my experiences in an abusive relationship, and I recently shared a story on Instagram about my experiences having an abortion at the age of twenty. In these stories I encouraged others to see listening as a supportive and healing act. I often send these stories to my parents, opening a dialogue for communication and understanding.

I am new to the world of birth work, a space that already holds so many powerful and strong voices. As a storyteller, an oral history collector, and a doula, I have found a way to unite all of these practices. The beauty of oral histories is that they create opportunities for individuals to show up and speak their truth. I am grateful for the opportunity to hear my mother's story; I will carry it with me as a reminder to continuously cultivate spaces where people in the birth world can have that too.