Are you watching the third & final season of The Summer I Turned Pretty? I'm watching, and I'm obsessed. I'm also unabashedly Team Conrad - FYI.

Something else I am unabashedly doing? Hopping onto the Instagram trend that is creating a The Summer I Turned Pretty esque graphic. My inspiration?

The Summer I Turned Pregnant

I was pregnant in the summer of 2020. My son was born August 20, 2020, meaning I spent all of June, all of July and most of August very, very pregnant.

I remember wearing these breezy, thin sundresses that had a tiered skirt with bike shorts underneath almost every day. I had the same dress in three different prints. As my belly grew, the bike shorts became more & more important in maintaining any semblance of modesty. Maternity fashion in late summer can logistically only be concerned with one thing - your comfort. Your clothes must keep you cool & prevent chaffing. Full stop. I also had an adorable highwaisted two piece swimsuit that magically expanded alongside my changing body, which was crucial because one of the only places I was comfortable was in the tiny Intex pool that my partner, Matt, dutifully installed in our back yard & kept clean all summer long.

I did a lot of floating in that tiny pool. I also did a lot of walking around our neighborhood, the adjacent apartment complex parking lot & the nearby wooded trails. Almost all of my pregnancy was spent in the isolation of the COVID-19 lockdown. One of my favorite solitary activities was sitting on my back deck, in a cheap plastic adirondack chair, watching the birds & observing how things were changing. I would soak up the heat of the summer like a lizard until I couldn’t stand it anymore & then I would slide into the cool water of that small pool.

I felt incredibly connected to nature while I was pregnant. One neighbor remarked that many of us felt connected to nature in the pandemic because we had the time to really notice what was happening around us. I think she was right. I remember being really, really pregnant - that part of the homestretch where you think there is no possible way your belly will get any bigger & then it does - and noticing the white-pink, puffy blossoms of a mimosa tree poking out of the bamboo in my backyard. I had never really noticed how remarkable it is that that tree, surrounded by the thick, powerful roots & deep, lush cover of the bamboo, was able to survive. And yet, every spring it sprouted green leaves & every summer it burst into color, producing whimsical poofs of flowers.

I also remember that summer we had a rouge chicken in our yard. We named her Greasy. She was a runaway from a neighbor's yard. She foraged for food alongside our small, two-bird flock, but she never made friends with our chickens, Chip & Joanna. Instead she kept to herself, sleeping high up in the branches in the bamboo. Watching her make her nightly ascent was hysterical & impressive. About a month before my son was born, Greasy laid eggs in a patch of monkey grass near our back deck. Not too far from that cheap plastic adirondack chair I enjoyed so much. Every day, Greasy would sit on her eggs - hidden almost completely from view in the monkey grass. But I knew she was there. Expectant, nervous, diligent, determined & exhausted - just like me. One morning I awoke to find that Greasy’s eggs were broken & cracked. I like to think they hatched, but the likelihood of Greasy having had fertilized eggs is slim. Regardless, the very next day I went into labor. If that isn’t magic, I don’t know what is.

The events that followed were wild & wonderful. My birth was long, challenging, supported, beautiful, mystical, and ultimately ended in a cesarean birth. I have fond memories of my birth because I was surrounded by people who centered my care, including a doula, my partner & the midwifery team from what was the Women’s Birth & Wellness Center in Chapel Hill. I was listened to & I was heard. I was able to advocate for myself, and when I couldn’t, I felt completely confident that my doula & partner knew exactly what I wanted. I had made a thorough birth plan (if you know me, you are not surprised) but most importantly I had a support team that knew that at the heart of my birth plan was one thing - respect.

Respect for my body.
Respect for my baby.
Respect & reverence for the magic that is birth.
Respect for my midwives.
Respect for all that I had been through to get to this moment.

Birth is the final step in a long, hard fought marathon - a testament to the strength, power & determination of all women. It is an unfolding - a journey - a path not forward, but through.

The awful truth is that not all women receive respect in their birth. I am grateful that in my work as a pre/postnatal yoga instructor I get to meet so many perinatal professionals working to change that. It brings me hope in a world that feels increasingly dangerous, percarious & scary for folks with uteruses. And I may not be able to do everything to address the issues of maternal morbidity, but I can do something, and somewhere I’ve found my place is in creating spaces where women can share their stories. A postnatal yoga class can be so much more than breathwork & movement. It can be a container for birthing people to tell their stories & share their experiences - in pregnancy, in birth & in the postpartum period.

Sharing our birth stories is powerful & important. Whether you are sharing to be seen, to be celebrated or to heal, your experience in pregnancy & in birth is worth remembering & sharing, and I, for one, am always down to offer a listening ear.

Today I am wishing a very Happy Birthing Day to me, an incredibly Happy Birthday to my wonderful, curious, creative kiddo & a Happy TSITP Drop Day to all who celebrate!

Join me online every Tuesday evening for Embodied Mothering Yoga, in-person every Wednesday afternoon for Postnatal Core Restore and in-person every Thursday morning for Baby & Me Yoga. Learn more about all of the Whole Mama Yoga class offerings here.

Love, Erin