The Veil is Thin: Pregnancy Through Song

This story is part of our Community Corner series, where we highlight a story from someone in the Missoula Sings community. Get in touch with us if you have a story to tell.

Preparing for childbirth and carrying life is the most vulnerable thing I’ve experienced. It brings tenderness to the surface: anticipation, joy, fear, uncertainty. Everything, all at once.

I grew up surrounded by people who numbed their discomfort in order to move quickly past difficult feelings. I could sense it from a young age, and I struggled with the cognitive dissonance I would experience when observing how the adults presented themselves verses what I actually felt coming from them. To combat this, I wore my heart on my sleeve. I spoke my truth and wore vulnerability like a shield. It became my super power and I swore I would always stay tender, and I did. Until I became a mother.

Preparing for childbirth and carrying life is the most vulnerable thing I’ve experienced.

I lost the fearless, authentic expression that I had as a maiden. I found myself analyzing every move. Who was watching? How would I be perceived? What do they think about me as a mom? The fear I felt from being judged by community was so great that I made an unconscious decision to hermit in my shame, isolating myself until I could figure out the perfect way to embody mother. Over time I fell into the same martyrdom I’d witness (and judged) in so many people throughout my life.

The fear I felt from being judged by community was so great that I made an unconscious decision to hermit in my shame, isolating myself until I could figure out the perfect way to embody mother.

I used to say, "there is magic in the mundane." I felt that statement so strongly in Maiden. That through song, presence, and my routine of checking in with myself, every moment could feel like magic. But I began to hate the mundane as a mother. My addiction to dopamine slowly grew out of control, and before I knew it I found myself constantly consuming to get by. I was chasing the high I felt from birth of my son. I could see it, I was naming it, but every day I fought—and lost— the battle of changing it.

My addiction to dopamine slowly grew out of control, and before I knew it I found myself constantly consuming to get by.

So when I found out I was pregnant this time, I was ready to lean back in. I knew from my first pregnancy that the season I was entering was a liminal space, and that birth is not the finish line. The high would settle, life would go on, and I needed to use this time to prepare for the mundane moments I would eventually settle back into.

I was well aware of the backed up emotions I had been avoiding. I knew the clog I created wasn’t just blocking the bad, it was holding back the good from coming through as well. So I started to test my edges. I let go of coping mechanisms that weren’t serving me (chain smoking, doomscrolling, anxiety inducing true crime tv) and I returned to the practices I fell out of in my transition to mother: journaling, dancing, singing, therapy.

It didn’t take long for life to stop feeling like something I needed to rush through. When I started to find myself present with each moment rather than mentally preparing for what would come next, I couldn’t believe the how much time and energy I had spent numbing.

As I gave myself permission to feel fully again, I began craving community that could hold me in my depth. Somewhere I didn’t feel pressured to arrive polished or composed. A space I could be cracked open. Surrounded by community that was willing to meet me in their depth, too.

As I gave myself permission to feel fully again, I began craving community that could hold me in my depth.

There’s something ancient about hearing your own voice blend with others. A reminder that we were never meant to move through this life alone. I think that’s why Missoula Sings quickly became a lifeline for me during this time. I found a space that felt like both a new and old way of being. Built by people who remembered, through our highs and our lows, song can hold all of it.

I let this philosophy expand into other areas of my life outside of Missoula Sings. Song became my bridge into the emotions I practiced avoiding. When I finally let go of my resistance, I found myself appreciating the polarity; visualizing the swells of emotion as waves I could ride rather than something I needed to escape.

This pregnancy showed me that community isn’t something that simply appears. We build it by showing up. By letting ourselves be seen in both our highs and lows. By asking for help when we need it, and being the help when we can. There is courage in our vulnerability, especially during the seasons we feel tender or uncertain. When we choose to return again and again and again, we become part of the circle we long for.

This pregnancy showed me that community isn’t something that simply appears. We build it by showing up.

What I am carrying forward from this time is not the specific songs, but my memories of being held: by harmonies, breath, and people willing to show up authentically together.