My mother was born on the 1st of December 1958, so December is always a time of the year when I find myself thinking about how it would be to still have her in my life now that I am in my mid-twenties, almost 10 years after her death.
But before being my mother, she was an extremely fascinating and passionate human being. She was an activist and a midwife or doula.
She was an advocate for home birth and her mission was to accompany and support women during the pregnancy, childbirth and after the baby was born. My childhood memories are filled with intense images of beautiful bodies of new born babies and women, and endless conversations on every aspect of motherhood: from very practical ones like how to take care and honour our pelvic muscles before and after giving birth, to how to practice self-care and self-pleasure in a society that stigmatise certain behaviours and choices as selfish and not appropriate for mothers.
She struggled with mental health since the age of twelve, but she was the strongest, most supportive woman I have ever known; she could be a mother for every mother in the moments of need. She taught me how childbirth can be a perfect metaphor for many other challenging moments in life: with a compassionate, non-intrusive support we can realise that we are capable of anything, that our bodies are so powerful and so are we.
Sharing her legacy is one of the most meaningful ways to come to terms with her loss. When I was 13 she told me that in her profession she had learned that there is a very intangible boundary between life and death, that every birth encompasses a form of death and from death always comes new life. I will always hold these words with me and I hope they will help others in their process of grief.
