Wisdom in birth
Written by
Luna Sol Birth Work
07.20.26
The Role of Birth Workers in Supporting Lactation, Breast/Chestfeeding, and Infant Feeding
(By Lauren of Luna Sol Birth Work)
Infant feeding is often approached as a biological task—something measurable, outcome-based, and clinical. But in practice, it is far more complex. Feeding is relational, emotional, cultural, and deeply embodied. It is shaped not only by physiology, but by safety, history, trauma, identity, family stories, and support systems.
As birth workers, our role is not to control feeding outcomes or define what success should look like. Our role is to create safety, offer grounded and informed support, and walk alongside families as they navigate their own feeding journeys. We are not here to dictate—we are here to hold, witness, and support.
Safety as the Foundation of Feeding
One of the most essential and often overlooked components of lactation is safety. The physiological process of milk release—the letdown reflex—is driven by oxytocin and prolactin, hormones connected to relaxation, trust, and connection. When a parent feels rushed, observed, judged, or unsafe, the body can inhibit milk flow. When safety is present, the nervous system is able to shift into a parasympathetic state, where feeding can occur with more ease.
As I reflected in my training, feeling safe is not just helpful—it is foundational to feeding. When a parent is supported, nourished, and not alone, their body is more able to respond.
This positions birth workers as more than informational support—we are regulators of the environment. We help create spaces of warmth, privacy, and emotional safety. This may look like encouraging partner involvement through presence, nourishment, or touch. It may look like quiet witnessing. Often, it looks like protecting the postpartum space from unnecessary pressure, interruption, or judgment.
Safety is not an added benefit in feeding—it is the ground it stands on.
Cultural Awareness and the History of Feeding
Feeding does not exist outside of cultural and historical context. In the United States, breastfeeding carries a layered and often painful history, particularly within Black communities.
Enslaved Black women were forced to act as wet nurses for white families, often prioritizing the nourishment of others' children over their own. Entire generations of white families were sustained by Black women's milk, while Black mothers were denied autonomy over their own bodies and caregiving. This history is not distant—it has shaped generational relationships to feeding, trust, and bodily autonomy.
In more recent history, formula companies disproportionately targeted Black communities, promoting the idea that their milk was insufficient or inferior. These narratives disrupted generational knowledge and contributed to ongoing disparities in breastfeeding support and outcomes.
Cultural awareness, as a birth worker, means acknowledging this history without assumption or judgment. It means understanding that feeding choices are shaped by systemic factors—racism, access to care, work demands, and generational messaging—not simply individual will.
Feeding is never just about milk. It is about history, systems, and belonging.
The Stories We Inherit About Feeding
Beyond cultural history, each family carries its own feeding lineage—stories, beliefs, expectations, and lived experiences that quietly shape how we enter parenthood. Some inherit generations of nourishing, empowering breastfeeding relationships. Others inherit stories of pain, shame, separation, or the belief that breastfeeding was never possible or never worth attempting. These narratives become part of the emotional landscape of infant feeding long before a baby is ever born.
I entered motherhood carrying a beautiful inheritance. My paternal grandmother breastfed all three of her sons. My maternal grandmother breastfed and stayed connected to my mother for years, despite persistent criticism from those around her because she trusted her instincts. My mother breastfed me, coslept with me for two years, and often described breastfeeding as one of the most meaningful experiences of her life. She would tell me that her milk letdown felt like "champagne bubbles trickling down her breasts" and spoke of feeding as something deeply intimate, peaceful, and almost magical. Those stories became part of my own understanding of motherhood. I believed breastfeeding would be natural—that my baby would instinctively want to nurse, my body would know exactly what to do, and the experience would unfold with ease.
Instead, my daughter's first five months were marked by four undiagnosed oral ties that left me with cracked, bleeding, throbbing nipples and excruciating pain during nearly every feeding. She nursed 18 to 21 times in a 24-hour period, struggled with gastrointestinal discomfort and very slow weight gain, and each letdown brought burning pain instead of the "champagne bubbles" I had imagined. Looking back, there were many contributing factors—sixty-nine hours of labor, prolonged exposure to IV fluids, forty hours of high-dose Pitocin, birth trauma, and her oral restrictions—but at the time, all I knew was that something felt terribly wrong. While some around me reassured me that breastfeeding was simply "barbaric" and that pain was normal, I found myself grieving the loss of the experience I had expected. After already feeling that my body had failed me during birth, I began to wonder if it was failing me again.No one had yet asked why breastfeeding hurt this much. The assumption—from well-meaning friends, providers, and even myself—was that pain was simply the price of breastfeeding. Looking back, I realize that normalizing suffering delayed the answers we desperately needed.
Yet the very lineage that deepened my disappointment also became my source of resilience. Because I had grown up hearing stories of breastfeeding as something worth protecting, I was unwilling to believe that relentless pain was simply my reality. Rather than giving up, I kept searching for answers. When my daughter's oral ties were finally identified and treated, everything changed. We went on to breastfeed comfortably and joyfully for eighteen months. I often reflect that without the stories of my mother and grandmothers, I may not have continued searching long enough to find the underlying cause. Their experiences did not define mine, but they profoundly influenced how I interpreted it and how fiercely I advocated for both myself and my daughter.
As birth workers, we meet families carrying countless unseen stories like these. Some stories offer strength, while others carry grief, fear, or generations of mistrust. None of these narratives guarantee a particular outcome, but all of them shape expectations, emotional responses, and the meaning families assign to their feeding experiences. By approaching feeding with curiosity rather than assumption, we create space for parents to honor the stories they inherit while also writing their own.
Trauma and the Feeding Experience
Feeding is an intimate act, and for many, it is layered with emotional and physiological complexity.
For some parents, breast or chest touch may activate memories of sexual trauma. For others, the vulnerability of feeding can bring up feelings of exposure, lack of control, or disconnection from the body. Even when there is a strong desire to breast/chestfeed, the body may respond differently due to past experiences or nervous system dysregulation.
Additionally, some parents experience Dysphoric Milk Ejection Reflex (D-MER), where the letdown reflex is accompanied by a sudden wave of negative emotions such as dread, sadness, or anxiety. This can feel confusing and isolating, especially when the feeding relationship otherwise feels stable.
Feeding can evoke a wide range of emotions—from deep connection and joy to grief, frustration, and overwhelm. Often, these emotions coexist.
Trauma-informed care in feeding means leading with consent, awareness, and respect. It means asking before touching, offering options instead of directives, and recognizing that feeding is not just physical—it is deeply tied to the nervous system and lived experience.
Gender-Inclusive and Identity-Respecting Language
Language is a critical part of creating safety and respect in feeding support. Not all parents identify with the term "breastfeeding," and assumptions around language can unintentionally create discomfort or disconnection.
By asking simple, open-ended questions such as, "What language feels most comfortable for you when we talk about feeding and your body?" we allow the parent to define their own experience.
Gender-inclusive support is not about memorizing correct terminology—it is about relational awareness. It is about listening, adapting, and ensuring that each person feels seen and respected in their identity.
Feeding as a Relational and Emotional Experience
While feeding is biological, it is also deeply relational. It can be a space of bonding, connection, pride, and even spiritual attunement. It can also hold grief, pressure, exhaustion, and unmet expectations. Often, it is both.
Feeding is influenced by nervous system regulation, personal history, family narratives, cultural messaging, and the level of support available. When we reduce feeding to output—ounces, duration, or exclusivity—we lose the depth of what is actually occurring.
This work invites us to hold feeding as a full-spectrum experience. Not something to be measured as success or failure, but something to be supported with care and nuance.
The Many Valid Paths of Feeding
There is no single correct way to feed a baby. Families may breast/chestfeed directly, pump, use donor milk, combination feed, or use formula. Each path is shaped by a unique combination of physiology, access, mental health, work demands, trauma history, family stories, and personal desire.
All feeding paths are valid.
At the same time, it is important to acknowledge that many parents discontinue breast/chestfeeding not because they want to, but because of lack of support, cultural conditioning, isolation, misinformation, or systemic barriers such as inadequate parental leave, inconsistent lactation care, or limited access to knowledgeable providers.
We honor each parent's lived experience and autonomy, while remaining aware of the broader systems that influence feeding outcomes. This awareness allows us to advocate gently, without pressure, and to support families in ways that are both realistic and empowering.
The Role of the Birth Worker in Feeding Support
We are here to support the process.
This includes:
Creating environments of safety and regulation.
Offering education without fear or pressure.
Including and empowering partners in meaningful ways.
Supporting prenatal preparation for feeding.
Protecting the postpartum space.
Using consent-based communication.
Witnessing without judgment.
Support also means staying within our scope while building strong referral networks—such as IBCLCs, bodyworkers, pediatric dentists familiar with oral restrictions, feeding specialists, and mental health professionals—so families receive comprehensive care.
It means asking permission before offering guidance. It means reflecting effort rather than assigning value to outcomes. It means trusting that each family is the authority on their own experience.
Conclusion
Infant feeding is not a simple task—it is a layered, dynamic experience shaped by biology, history, culture, trauma, family stories, and support.
We offer steadiness in a vulnerable space. We hold room for complexity, for both joy and grief, for empowerment and uncertainty. We support without controlling, guide without imposing, and witness without judgment.
Every feeding journey is shaped not only by biology, but by the stories that came before it—and the story each family is writing now.
Feeding is not a performance. It is a relationship.
And our role is to help ensure that those relationships are held in safety, dignity, and care—no matter what path they take.
09.29.25
Book Essay: Trauma Stewardship
by Connie Burk and Laura van Dernoot Lipsky
& how it can shape my birth work, alongside myself…
(By Lauren of Luna Sol Birth Work)
Reading Trauma Stewardship gave me language for things I already felt in my bones, but it also expanded the way I think about my work as a birth worker. I read it not only as someone who has lived through and integrated my own trauma, but also as someone who guides families through the initiation and ceremonies of pregnancy, birth, and the tender unraveling of postpartum. The book reminded me that stewardship isn’t just a concept for caregivers—it is a way of living, a way of being present to ourselves and others in every chapter of the human experience.
One of the quotes that resonated most was: “If you’re frozen or stuck in a state of hyper arousal all the time you don’t have the attention you need to do the work of healing.”This immediately connected for me to the entire journey into and through parenthood. So many families enter pregnancy carrying fear, trauma, or a nervous system still caught in survival. Part of my role is helping them create space to thaw, so they can actually access the transformative medicine of this time. The three main ceremonies that I witness aren’t just physical preparation—they’re also emotional, spiritual, and ancestral work. This teaching reminded me that if I want to guide them through it, I have to keep noticing where I’m frozen too, so I don’t unconsciously bring that into the spaces.
Another line that struck me was: “If we are not comfortable with our own anger, our clients may find it impossible for them to process their anger with us.” I had to sit with that. Anger has been a complicated piece of my story. I used to think it wasn’t safe to feel it, or that it made me “too much”.Birth is one of the rawest ceremonies a person can go through, and anger often surfaces in those moments—anger at the body, at the system, at partners, or at the sheer intensity of the experience. If I have not done my own work with anger, I can’t hold theirs with integrity. This is equally true in postpartum, where exhaustion, grief, and frustration often sit alongside love and joy. This quote reminded me that my self-work is not separate from my client work; it is what allows me to hold safe space for the full spectrum of human emotion that birth and postpartum bring.
The final teaching that I carry with me is: “More than anything else we need to practice Trauma Stewardship as knowledge of our own lives…The essence of the trauma stewardship approach is to cultivate the quality of being present.” This, to me, is the heart of birth and postpartum care. Presence is the medicine. In those moments when parents are vulnerable, wide open, and sometimes undone, what they need most is not advice or fixing but someone fully present with them. Presence creates safety. Presence allows them to integrate their birth experience, to grieve and celebrate, to be witnessed in the liminal space between who they were and who they are becoming.
For me, Trauma Stewardship was both a mirror and a map. It reflected the truth that I cannot separate my healing from my work, and it mapped out how tending to myself—my nervous system, my anger, my capacity for presence—directly shapes how I walk with others. Whether in the expansion of pregnancy, the threshold of birth, or the sacred reweaving of postpartum, this book reminded me that stewardship is not about giving everything away. It is about cultivating presence and wholeness within myself, so I can serve as a steady anchor for those navigating their own rites of passage.
11.11.25
Faith and Action: A Reflection for Birth Workers
(By Lauren of Luna Sol Birth Work)
I’ve been sitting with this lately — the gap between faith and action, between witnessing and doing, between reverence and responsibility.
In the medical industrial complex, we see the over-doing: constant intervention, manipulation, coercion, and a lack of trust in the birthing body. The system itself is a machine of control and standardization. We all know this. I’ve seen a healthy woman go into labor, be told what to do, ignored when she said “no,” until her body gave up — and then they “saved” her from a situation they created. It’s devastating.
But I’ve also seen the opposite. The “trust your body,” “rest and breathe,” “hands-off” philosophy applied like a blanket over everything — even when the energy begged for movement. So far into faith and stillness that we sometimes forget what our hands, instincts, and energy are for.
I’ve witnessed “guidance” where faith became paralysis — where reverence for nature meant no one stepped in to shift the energy when it started to spiral. I say this with love, not blame, because I have been that doula before.
I’ve watched exhaustion overtake a mother while everyone else stayed quiet, silently giving up and calling it trust. I’ve seen the difference between surrender and defeat, and I can tell you — they do not look the same.
One mother labored for thirty hours at home. She was told to relax, rest, breathe, and trust the process. But her body was calling out for change, for expansion, for *something—anything—*different. One centimeter. Baby asynclitic. Contractions chaotic. My instincts said we needed to move, to shift, to do something — but I stayed quiet. I deferred to the provider. I didn’t follow what I felt. I gave too much faith — and not to the right source. Not to instinct. Not to the mother. And definitely not enough action.
Faith without action can become neglect. Action without faith can become control. Birth asks us to hold both.
I learned from that experience that being “hands-off” or sitting back to witness isn’t always holy — sometimes it’s avoidance.
Since then, I’ve shifted. I turned toward deeper education and embodied learning. I dove into the energetics of birth — the veil we cross with the families we serve — and how to hold that sacred container. I focus on presence before movement, but I no longer hesitate when movement is needed. I hum, sway, breathe, and listen. I guide. I respond. I attune to the mother’s breath, her muscle tone, her tension, her voice. Are her eyes open, closed, clenched, soft?
The magic is in the balance — in the space where faith meets action, stillness meets movement, and witnessing meets guidance.
At my next birth, it came full circle. Another long labor. Another asynclitic baby. Exhaustion. Irregularity. Hip pain. Vomiting. Defeat. Three centimeters and talk of a hospital transfer. This time, I followed the energy. I released my fear of overstepping and the ghosts of previous births. I offered gentle, informed guidance — movement, inversions, Rebozo work, asymmetrical positioning, intimacy with her partner, touch, water, laughter, observation. Four hours later, she was pushing. Thirty minutes after that, her baby was born. No transfer. No fear. Just flow.
Holding the energetic field isn’t passive. It’s not just lighting candles and humming softly (though sometimes it is that, too). It’s the art of staying attuned enough to feel when the air in the room shifts — when fear creeps in, when a provider’s tone sharpens, when the mother’s energy collapses inward instead of opening outward. It’s about knowing when to sit back and when to rise.
Sometimes that means standing between her and the provider — not to create conflict, but to create a pause. To slow the flood of medical language so she can breathe and come back to herself. Sometimes it’s quietly re-anchoring the energy in the room with your voice, your breath, your movement. Sometimes it’s asking the hard question no one else will ask, or reminding the team that there is still another way.
That’s the work. That’s guidance.
Guidance isn’t about authority or leadership — it’s about service. It’s about listening deeply enough to know what the moment actually needs, and then having the courage to move when it’s time. To be creative. To step outside the “normal” birthing process when the field is calling for something different.
Because the truth is, if we reject the medical industrial complex for standardizing all births, we must also examine what happens when “trust birth” becomes its own kind of standardization. Yes — trust birth — but that isn’t the end of the line. We can’t afford to swing between extremes anymore. These families deserve better. We must question where our faith has become ideology instead of intuition.
The balance lives in that sacred in-between: faith and action, stillness and movement, witnessing and guiding.
To hold the energetic field is to stay awake — to trust that your presence, discernment, voice, and creativity are sacred tools, not intrusions.
We owe it to the mothers we serve to keep learning when to step back and when to rise. To stay humble. To stay brave. To stay curious enough to ask: What does she need right now — in her body, in her spirit, in this moment?
Our clients deserve our full presence.
Our continued education.
Our humility and our courage.
They deserve to birth surrounded by people who can sense, see, and respond with integrity — people who don’t rest on their laurels or their ideology. People who know how to walk that razor’s edge between surrender and guidance.
We are not saviors.
We are not spectators.
We are witnesses — sacred, intentional, and human.
So I leave you with this…
How do we hold and help guide the energetic field? What does it mean to stay in the field instead of managing it?
Do we even consider it part of our job?
How much of this work is doing — and how much is witnessing?
What is too much? What is too little?
When have I chosen faith over action — and what did it teach me?
When have I acted too quickly — and what was I trying to control?
How can I learn to sense when the energy calls for stillness versus movement?
How can I honor and respect the providers I work with while still protecting the client’s autonomy?
What creative tools can I bring forward when a situation falls outside the “normal” process?
How do I make space for both reverence and responsibility — for the sacred and the skillful — in every birth I attend?
10.02.24
The Maternal Health Crisis: Where We Stand and How We Move Forward
(By Lauren of Luna Sol Birth Work)
In recent years, the state of maternal health in the U.S. has come under increasing scrutiny. Despite living in one of the most advanced countries in the world, we’re seeing troubling statistics and even more troubling stories of birthing individuals suffering through preventable complications, inadequate care, and devastating outcomes. As someone who navigated the medical system during my own pregnancy, and now as a birth doula working in the heart of Los Angeles, I’ve come to see the gaps between the care we’re being given and the care we deserve.
The Crisis at Hand: Why Are Maternal Outcomes in the U.S. So Poor?
The U.S. is currently grappling with a maternal health crisis that leaves us far behind many other developed nations. While we have the technology, advanced medical procedures, and access to healthcare on paper, we’re seeing rising rates of maternal mortality, particularly among Black women. In fact, Black women in the U.S. are three to four times more likely to die from pregnancy-related complications than their white counterparts. And that disparity doesn’t stop at the delivery room—it extends into postpartum care, where women report being dismissed or not taken seriously by their providers, often with tragic outcomes.
The question is, why?
The root causes are complex, involving systemic issues within our healthcare system, a lack of individualized care, socioeconomic factors, and a heavy reliance on medical interventions over holistic, evidence-based prenatal and birth care. Too often, care providers treat birth as a condition that needs to be managed, and the focus becomes more about minimizing liability than empowering the birthing person. The standardized, one-size-fits-all approach fails to address the unique needs of each individual—physically, emotionally, and mentally.
The Role of Politics in Maternal Healthcare
Politics, while a difficult subject to navigate, undeniably plays a role in the maternal health crisis. We’ve seen policy decisions, like the rollback of reproductive rights, that have added barriers for many women to access prenatal care or make informed choices about their pregnancies. At the same time, there’s a shortage of midwives and a disconnect between hospitals and community-based care providers, which could offer more personalized support.
The issue of Medicaid coverage and healthcare access is another significant barrier. In many states, Medicaid stops covering postpartum care after 60 days, leaving new mothers—especially those from marginalized communities—without the care they need during one of the most vulnerable periods of their lives. Efforts have been made to extend Medicaid coverage to a full year postpartum, and while some states have adopted this, many have not. This lack of continuity in care is detrimental to maternal health, and it’s an area where we can and should be pushing for change.
What’s Working: The Power of Individualized Care and Birth Workers
Within the birth worker community—midwives, doulas, childbirth educators—we are witnessing a different reality. Through individualized care, we see better outcomes, healthier pregnancies, and more empowered birthing experiences. The difference is in the details: building trust with the birthing person, focusing on their physical, mental, and emotional well-being, and respecting their choices at every stage of the process.
This approach works because it prioritizes the birthing person’s needs. We recognize that no two pregnancies, births, or postpartum experiences are the same. We teach that birth is a physiological process, not something to be managed with excessive interventions unless absolutely necessary. And we focus on nutrition, mental health, and lifestyle—because when the whole person is supported, the outcomes are better.
Evidence backs up this holistic approach. Studies show that continuous support during labor—whether from a doula or a midwife—leads to shorter labors, fewer cesarean sections, and more satisfying birth experiences overall. When the birthing person feels safe, heard, and respected, they are less likely to experience complications or traumatic birth outcomes.
What About High-Risk Pregnancies?
For some individuals, particularly those with high-risk pregnancies, the option of home birth midwifery may not be available or advisable. This is where the standard medical system is essential, offering access to interventions that are truly life-saving for both parent and baby. But even in a high-risk situation, there is still room for personalized care and empowerment.
High-risk doesn’t mean you have to relinquish all control over your birth experience. You can still be an active participant in your care. A midwife, doula, or a supportive OB-GYN can help you navigate your options and create a birth plan that works within the boundaries of your health while respecting your autonomy. The key is open, ongoing communication and finding a care provider who listens and works with you rather than for you.
Addressing the Fear-Based Approach to Pregnancy
Unfortunately, many birthing people are led to fear their pregnancies, particularly in medical settings. They’re often told about the risks, the dangers, and all the things that could go wrong, which breeds a sense of anxiety rather than empowerment. This fear can lead to a "fawning" response, where the individual defers entirely to the provider, trusting the system over their own body and instincts.
This fear-based approach is perpetuated by a medical model that emphasizes intervention over trust in the natural process of birth. Too many birthing people are led to believe that their bodies are unpredictable or incapable without medical management. As a result, they lose faith in themselves and their ability to birth.
But here’s the truth: the body knows what to do. While there are always exceptions, the vast majority of pregnancies are healthy and low-risk. The key is to find the right support system—one that encourages you to listen to your body, stay informed about your choices, and feel empowered to advocate for yourself.
A good childbirth education course, access to midwifery care, or hiring a doula are all ways to help overcome that fear. These options focus on knowledge, choice, and support, teaching birthing people about the physiological process of labor, ways to cope with discomfort, and how to advocate for their needs in a medical setting. The more you know, the more empowered you’ll feel, even if your pregnancy becomes medically complex.
What Needs to Change
There’s no single solution to the maternal health crisis. But several areas need immediate attention if we’re going to improve outcomes for birthing individuals across the country.
First, we need to expand access to midwifery care and doula support. States that have done this, like Washington, have seen much better outcomes. This should go hand-in-hand with increasing Medicaid coverage and ensuring that postpartum care extends beyond the immediate recovery from childbirth. A full year of postpartum care should be standard, not a luxury.
Next, we must push for more individualized care within the medical system. This means training doctors, nurses, and other care providers to see birthing individuals as whole people with unique needs, rather than as patients to be managed according to a standardized checklist. It also means addressing implicit bias within the healthcare system, particularly as it impacts Black women and other marginalized groups.
Lastly, education is key. Birthing individuals need access to evidence-based childbirth education, focused on the physiological process of birth and the choices they have available to them. We need to move away from fear-based models of care and instead empower women with knowledge and the ability to make informed decisions about their own bodies.
A New Vision for Maternal Healthcare
The maternal health crisis may seem overwhelming, but there are reasons to be hopeful. Across the country, we’re seeing more birthing people opt for midwives, hire doulas, and educate themselves on their options. We’re seeing community-based care models that are driven by compassion and evidence-based practices, offering a blueprint for what maternity care can and should look like.
It’s time for a shift. We need to embrace a model of care that sees the whole person, empowers them with choices, and supports them with the resources they need for a healthy pregnancy, birth, and postpartum period. We need policies that protect and uplift birthing people, ensuring that no one is left behind in the most vulnerable moments of their lives.
I come from a small town, where a lot of that 'hoodoo-voodoo,' as they like to call it, gets passed off as outdated or unscientific. But what I’ve learned is that a balance between tradition and modernity, intuition and evidence, is not only possible—it’s necessary. And as a young dreamer living in the city, now mother, that balance is what brought me into birth work and what drives my passion for advocating for better care, better outcomes, and most of all, better support for every birthing person.
The journey to change is long, but with the strength of our community, our birth workers, and the evidence behind us, I believe we can create a better future for maternal health in this country.