When I was 23 years old, I was held at gunpoint with my three month old baby in my arms by local, drunk, women on my great-grandmother’s front porch in Osage, West Virginia. There were three of them to be exact, but only one had a rifle. She was waving it around, yelling at me and blocking my way. Drunk. It’s in these moments in my life where everything speeds up and slows down at the same time. I thought faster than I ever had in my entire life and everything happened simultaneously in slow motion.
But let’s back up because I’m sure many of you are wondering how did I find myself in this situation? What offense had I committed to be the recipient of this anger. Maybe you think I was playing my music too loud, or I walked uninvited onto their property, or maybe I was yelling profanities, riling up my great-grandmothers neighbors? Nope.
All I did was drive up to my great-grandmother’s home, the place where I spent my weekends growing up, my home turf mind you, planning to spend the weekend there for a wedding that I was in town for. When I drove up in my little Subaru, a gaggle of children rode their bikes up to my car, accosting me as soon as I opened the door. They began asking questions before I was even out of the car. “Where are you from? What’s your name? What’s your baby’s name? What are you doing here? Where do you live? What’s in your bag? Can we come in?” I smiled and acknowledged each one of them asking names, how old they were, and where they lived (in the trailer around the corner). After a few minutes I gently said, “I need some time to settle in with my baby, she’s hungry. No, you can’t come in right now but I’m sure I will see you later.” And I waved goodbye as I entered my great-grandmother’s home.
An hour later I was greeted with banging on my door and I found myself on the porch with these women, those children’s mothers, drunk, yelling at me, haphazardly waving their gun at me. They were pissed that I talked to their kids, that I “invited” their kids into my home. They wanted to know what right did I have to talk to their children and who was I rolling up in their neighborhood? I tried to explain myself backing up and looking for a way out, tried to calm their fears, whatever they were as I pointed to my baby in my arms. I meant no harm, and I was in shock. I couldn’t quite figure out what was happening, but what I did know was that it would not take much for the woman to accidentally pull 
that trigger. It took a moment for my brain to catch up, but in a flash I realized what was really going on and what might be my only hope of getting myself and my baby out of this situation safely.
First off, I was a stranger to them. Even though I am born and bred West Virginia and this was my family’s house, I had not lived there in close to 10 years. They didn’t know me, so they saw me as a threat. What I realized in those timeless moments is that not only was I a stranger, but I looked like something they couldn’t understand. I represented change, and hope. I must’ve smelled like it, reeked of something different. And when their children, intrigued, looked at me asking to invite them into my great-grandmother’s home and I said no, they rode their bikes home to tell their parents about the curious lady who dressed and talked a little differently at the house around the corner, and it scared the shit out of their parents.
I scared the shit out of them because they didn’t know what to make of me, of me and everything I represented. They had no personal tools to deal with this perceived threat, no skills to make connection with something so foreign. And what was scariest about this situation is that I looked like them! I was white, a woman, a mother, and from West Virginia…I was them! But in their eyes I was not. It was one of the scariest moments of my life to be unable to make a human connection with the people in front of me. I represented something so foreign to them. I looked like a different way of life, and that is intimidating to 
someone whose life is not seen, not heard, not supported.
I had no cell phone back then and the landline was far away inside the house. I knew I only had one way out of this situation. I started asking them questions.“Tell me more about your day, your work, your boyfriend, sleep, money? Tell me, where does it hurt?” I quickly code-switched and was going in for the connection. I empathized, connecting with that piece of myself that was just like them: a woman and a mother that loved hard, cared about my home, and worried about my kids and family and wanted them to be safe.
I actively listened as their rants and yelling became conversation that turned into smiles. We connected over my father, who used to live in a trailer down the road, over caring for a new baby and the woes of money and feeding children. Finally, after an agonizing 10 minutes I had, sheerly by connecting, talked them down. The gun was hanging by one of the mothers’ sides and they invited me over to their trailer later that evening, for which I thanked them. They left the porch saying, “call if you need anything.” After I stopped shaking and gathered my wits, I held my baby close, called my family, and cried.
And why, 20 years later, do I share this story? Because for me, it is an analogy of what’s happening right now in our country. The United States is a lot like the drunk women on my great-grandmother’s porch waving their gun at me so many years ago: terrified of a perceived threat, a loss of connection; terrified of losing power and control, grasping for a perceived better time.
As a professional Doula, attending births for over 17 years, I know that sitting and connecting with people during one of the most vulnerable and sometimes scary times in their lives creates deep, long-lasting positive change. I have found that physical and emotional support and advocacy, the cornerstone of all doula work, is not just for the time of birth. I use these tools in my everyday connections with everyday people. I find new ways to learn, and figure out how to ask the question “where does it hurt?” and actively listen to advocate for change on a daily basis.
My work as a doula transcends the moment of birth. I firmly believe that human connection has a unique opportunity to heal the broken relations in our country. As birth doulas we are experts in communication and active listening and we understand that all humans deserve to feel seen, to feel heard, to be held, to be loved. With these simple tools I can dive into the deep wounds that go across our country, the unspoken hurt and anxieties and understand how fear drives people to grab onto hate and guns and mistake those things as power. As a doula I know that there is wisdom and healing in connection, and I firmly believe that connection will rebuild the foundation that we so desperately need for our country.
With the support of many amazing women and doulas, I have built Homegrown Babies and Homegrown Families to be here for you. Our doors are open. If you need a safe place to come, by yourself or with your family, to process your fears and anxieties with no judgment, a place where you feel heard, held and loved, please come to our home.
I would love to see you. I want to connect with your fears and anxieties and hear your hopes and dreams. I want to support you in the good work you want to do in the world and I want to be inspired by how you want to raise your children.
I believe that through connection, hope is born. Even in the most challenging of times when it seems like there is no way out… we need to connect with each others humanity. And by doing this we just might be able to lower that rifle of fear and hate that has been raised in our country.
