Activism

Doula work is inherently political.

Supporting someone through birth, abortion, loss, postpartum, or early parenting means stepping into the most vulnerable, system-impacted moments of their life. It means navigating hospitals shaped by medical racism, policies shaped by eugenics, and social structures that shame, surveil, and abandon parents. Especially if they are young, poor, Black, brown, disabled, queer, or undocumented.

Doulas do not just witness injustice. We are often asked to soften it, absorb it, or shield people from it. That is political.

Every time I advocate for informed consent, resist coercion, protect autonomy, or speak truth in a room where power tries to silence, I am doing political work.

Bodies are policed. Birth is legislated. Loss is criminalized. Parenting is punished.

And the people most impacted are the ones most often ignored.

So my work does not end at the bedside.

It continues in policy, protest, education, and public accountability.

Because no one should have to choose between care and justice.

Because every body deserves both.

 I am a parent, a partner, and a human being who has known both love and loss. I exist in the quiet space between being seen and being overlooked. I have been called too much and made to feel like not enough. I carry those contradictions with me everywhere I go. They have taught me to notice the ones who are unheard and unseen. I refuse to let them stay that way.

I am a rainbow parent, a breastmilk donor, and a survivor. I have grieved life while nurturing it. I have given my body as nourishment while healing my own wounds. I have rebuilt myself in the quiet hours while still showing up for my family and my community. I know the kind of strength it takes to stay. To rise. To turn pain into purpose.

I have faced impossible choices. The kind that break your heart long before they bring you peace. I had to let go of a pregnancy I desperately wanted. A baby I already loved. My body was failing. My health was unraveling. Continuing would have meant leaving behind the children who already call me Mom. The partner who shares this life with me. I did not want to choose. I prayed I would not have to. But I chose to live. For the ones who are still here. That decision shattered me. It was an act of love. It was an act of survival. And it lives inside everything I do.

My body has carried pain that most cannot see. I have been dismissed. Doubted. Left searching for answers that came too slow if they came at all. 

I know what it means to hurt quietly. 

To survive in the in-between. 

To keep going even when care feels out of reach.

These truths shape how I move through the world.

They shape how I listen. How I advocate. How I show up.

They fuel every protest. Every testimony. Every moment of care.

I fight for those who are unheard and underestimated.

I speak for those who are dismissed or dehumanized.

I doula with the belief that healing is not only physical. It is emotional. It is cultural. It is systemic. It is deeply personal.

And for many of us it is the only way we survive.