Motherbirth and my Matrescence

Eighteen years ago, sweaty and exhausted after 41 hours of labor and 3 hours of pushing, Nehama’s wet, slippery body collapsed onto my warm, trembling chest.

I had made it. I was a mother!

After 11 years of attending births, I was humbled to my core, finally on the other side of the equation. I had witnessed birth as a fierce initiation where women met their demons and slayed them at the Gate of Holy Terror and Humility (as we midwives say). But until that moment, I had never been there myself.

Nehama’s birth cracked me wide open.

It took me far beyond what I knew as a midwife and deep inside myself as a laboring woman. I emerged softer but stronger.  I looked around at my mother, sister, Yves, and my three midwives, floating in an oxytocin bliss bubble, and said,

“I love you all so much!”

But that initial bliss quickly gave way to sleepless nights, raw, cracked nipples, and emotional upheaval. A few days in, I confessed to a friend and client,

“I don’t think I like motherhood.”

Breastfeeding was excruciating.  And it was all I did. I remember looking down at Nehama’s tiny, perfect face and thinking:  

"Oh my god, you are so perfect and I am so flawed! What the hell am I gonna do with you?"

It wasn’t a thought I expected. But no one warned me just how vulnerable motherhood would make me feel.

After two months, breastfeeding finally got better, and I fell deeply in love with her. And still — motherhood was the hardest role I’d ever taken on (and being a midwife is no small feat!).

I desperately wanted to “get it right.” I’d read all the books. I wanted to be endlessly patient, unconditionally loving, the kind of mother who could hold space for big emotions with calm grace.

But I had never seen that modeled for me. And it's hard — near impossible — to embody what you’ve never known.

So I stumbled. I yelled. I felt guilty. I resented not having any time for myself.
Motherhood became the place where my inner critic screamed the loudest.
I was exhausted, isolated, and convinced I was failing.

Here I was — a midwife, guiding other women through their matrescence — and I was barely staying afloat.

It shattered my self-image. I thought I was superwoman: artist, midwife, single mom, entrepreneur, seeker.  

 

 

But I was falling apart. And deep down, I knew my only way out was to learn how to include myself in the circle of care I so easily extended to others.

Nehama’s arrival planted the first seed of what would later become the MotherFly Matrix. I got fiercely passionate about self-care and began weaving it into my prenatal teachings.

"Self-care is the foundation of motherhood," became the mantra I told my mamas.

Five years later, I became pregnant again. At 37, eager for another child with my new partner, I miscarried at 7 weeks.

I thought I could outrun the grief by getting pregnant again. But month after month, every cycle reopened the wound.

Eight months later, I traveled to Guatemala with Nehama and performed an Ayurvedic ritual for healing pregnancy loss. Three nights, facing east over burning sage, cleansing my womb. On the third night, I had a vivid dream:

I was in a temescal made of ice. A Mayan midwife watched as I squatted and gave birth — no pain, only pure ecstasy. There was no baby, only light and release.

Later, a friend helped me see: I had birthed the spirit of my lost baby. Chills ran down my spine when I realized — it was the very day my baby would have been born.

Soon after, I conceived again. This time, I not only birthed a healthy baby — my daughter Jade — I also birthed Shakti Rising: Maya’s Labyrinth, one of my life’s greatest creative projects.

Shakti Rising told my story of pregnancy loss and reconception through dance, music, and ritual. It wove together 28 artists and dancers, blending belly dance, Afro-Cuban folklore, and modern movement.

Looking back, I see it was my first real embodiment of MotherFly — bringing together all parts of myself: the mother, the dreamer, the creator, the midwife. It was my personal labyrinth and my universal message:

Motherhood is an enrichment program. It’s a sacred rite of passage, connecting us to our primal selves and an ancient sisterhood.

 

Jade’s birth taught me about the healing power of creativity — the second key in my MotherFly Matrix.  We think of creativity as a luxury, but it's as vital as breath. It fuels our passion, lights us up, and connects us to the Divine.

My third daughter, Amaya, brought the most profound lesson of all — the terrible gift of postpartum depression and anxiety, which eventually morphed into bipolar disorder and forever changed the trajectory of my life and work.

When I got pregnant at 41, overwhelmed and anxious, I couldn’t shake the fear:

"How will I do this? Two little ones, attending births, paying bills? What if the baby isn’t healthy? I’m already exhausted — how will I survive this?"

I told my (ex)partner:

"You need to get your business together. I can't carry this alone."

He reassured me he had it covered.  But Amaya's birth came and went with no change in his income. I had no choice but to return to work, baby in tow, to make ends meet.

Three months postpartum, I unraveled.
Exhausted. Anxious. Resentful. Depressed.

Underneath, my identity was shattering. I wasn’t just tired — I was lost.
My soul felt scattered into a thousand pieces.

Seventeen years of midwifery suddenly felt hollow. My nervous system was fried. My sacred work no longer fit.

And I learned — painfully — that matrescence isn’t just a sweet transition. It’s a total metamorphosis:

Your brain changes.
Your hormones shift.
Your body, your social world, your psyche, your spirit — all transform.

It happens whether you like it or not. Whether you acknowledge it or not.  Whether you receive support or not.

I struggled for years.
And I’m a midwife — I “should’ve known better,” right?

But only when I invested in support, when I got the help I truly needed, did everything begin to change.

I could finally take a deep breath again.

My fire came back.
I woke up inspired, instead of dreading the day.

I reconnected with the passions that make me me — my daughters, dance, writing, travel.

My mental clarity returned. I launched global summits, wrote books, started a podcast.

And I finally understood: I could continue to midwife women, but in a way that lit me up instead of draining me.

Because what I truly loved wasn’t just childbirth.

It was motherbirth — witnessing women not just birthing babies but birthing their next, most powerful selves.

Time and time again, I had guided women to birth not just new life, but new art, new businesses, new purpose.

Motherhood is a portal.
Period.
This is the secret potential of matrescence.

Each of my daughters handed me a key:

• Nehama taught me about self-care and self-compassion — the Container.

• Jade showed me the healing power of Creativity.

• Amaya taught me to ask for and receive support — true Community.

These three keys became the foundation of my MotherFly Matrix. They are the antidote to what I call the 3 blocks to a thriving motherhood - shame, lack, and isolation.  They are a healing balm to the burnout and overwhelm that so many mothers face.  

Container. Creativity. Community.

The keys to not just surviving motherhood — but thriving in it.  

These little ladies were my midwives.  They have brought me to my knees a thousand times, but the silver lining is that they have grown me into the woman I am today.