Introduction When I was a little girl, my mother had a song that she would sing whenever it rained. According to her, the church's old folks would sing it, welcoming the clouds' sweet salve. I imagined the rain baptizing the flowers and blessing the hearts that had harvested them. As my mother sang, I would daydream of the rain's droplets softly kissing the grass that I played on with my cousins in the hot summer sun of Alabama. Our clothing's grass stains would sanctify us and set us apart when we first emerged from indoor comfort to outdoor adventure. I'd imagine the rain sinking deep below the surface, watering the roots, whispering "Grow." The surrounding trees, whose branches would swing low, made it easier for me to climb within them. Their roots, intertwined beneath the surface, held the story of those who came before us. These trees had more than likely seen so very much. I'd imagine the secrets told behind their backs, the kisses exchanged between lovers, and the umbrellalike shelter provided as the rain fell. Earthworms would make their way aboveground, offering their uninvited hello. As I sat at my mother's feet, allowing her words to wash away the childlike fear that may have arisen regarding the storm ahead, I would close my eyes and listen to the rain as it fell. The initial pitter-patter and rhythmic salutations were tolerable. It felt like home. However, the sudden thunder and the ebb and flow from the familiar to the unpredictability of the unknown would cause fear to make its grand appearance within my little body. It was the feeling of being so small and helpless, a sensation felt many times at such a young age. This feeling I experienced as a child happens to most of us at some point, when life seems to be out of our control, when the storms threaten our roots. We feel small as life presents itself in all of its terrifying largeness. Amid nature's chaos, the sound of the rain mixed with my mother's voice called forth a symphony of calm in an otherwise chaotic world. The thunder would clap; my little shoulders would jump. I didn't feel brave. Her song would cause a welcome distraction from my imagination of giants wrestling above. I continued listening to her voice as the rain fell harder upon the roof of our home and knocked against our windows. In that moment, my mother's voice and the steady drumming of rain calmed me. The lightning bellowed. I remember thinking that, indeed, the sound of thunder was the direct replica of the voice of God, commanding all to stand at attention and in awe. Thunder was the glare that a mother gave during church service, commanding her child to sit up and acknowledge as the preacher delivered their sermon. The thunder was the spoken yet unspoken command to be alert and the directive to act as if you had some damn home trainin'. As the rain fell, I felt a sense of renewal and fear. The rain represented all things clean and the washing away of yesterday. The thunder felt scary and holy at the same time--as our own inner storms often do. I continued to sit, glued to my mother's voice, calling forth the nurturing spirit of the rain for me. Oh, how its presence would call forth nature's growth. Decades later, on a crisp, wet January morning in 2018, I would find myself standing beneath the rain's guidance, palms open, requesting that just as nature experienced her renewal, I would too. I'd miscarried for the second time. As the spring rain poured outside my home, I recalled the days of my youth sitting at my mother's feet. I ventured out into my front yard and allowed the shower to wash over me. I wasn't sure if the rain could heal my broken heart or if it had the power to cleanse my grief. However, I knew what it could do for the daffodils, the California succulents upon my doorstep, and the sun-scorched grass that needed its care. I, too, was depleted, bare, and dry. I also needed watering, and so here I was. Hey there, my name is Brandi. I am a birth and postpartum doula who became what I call a Life Doula. This means I have the privilege of supporting people as they journey through this life adventure. We are all giving birth to something. Conceiving a new reality. Laboring through our days as we attempt to capture our joy and hold it close. A doula is quite literally a person that guides and supports people through various life transitions, be it literal birth, postpartum, or death, or a figurative rebirth of oneself into our next path. I help people as they learn to capture said joy, transition through the various rooms of life, and cultivate their highest selves. Over the years, I've worked with many clients, and what has remained true is that we all, no matter the room of life we find ourselves in, want to go from simply surviving to thriving. But it takes work to get there--work we'll do together here to get you to more joy, to a life that thrives. What's the difference between surviving and thriving? Survival is instinctual. We all want to live. It's in our bones to reach for the sun and oxygen to fill us with life. But thriving is different. It feels different. Thriving is the intentional gathering of all things possible and creating the best-case scenario for growth. It looks like using what you have and fearlessly creating more. It's asking yourself "What do I need for the present journey and the road ahead?" Thriving is a rebellious middle finger to the expectation (societal or internal) that we must only exist, sacrificing our experience here on earth. Simply put, I describe thriving as our will to live and breathe and taste life fully, savoring it on our tongue, leaving us full in our belly. My hope is that, with the stories and lessons nestled in this book, you find ways to thrive in the spaces of discomfort. That's been my life's journey. As a Life Doula, I've witnessed four great labors that we all must move through. Sure, there are likely more, but these four come up again and again across age, background, economic status, and all walks of life. These four great labors of our lives push us to our superpower of vulnerability and her not-so-distant cousin, solidity. These two are often revealed only as we traverse these great labors. However, we can sometimes get stuck in the struggle of it all if we get into a pattern of only weathering life's storms, as they pass over us, instead of giving ourselves precisely what we need as we birth ourselves through to the other side. Okay, I know you are probably wondering what these four great labors are. First, there is the labor of our relationships. Whether familial, platonic, or romantic, I've learned that relationships can be our most extraordinary hardship or teacher. And when we've yet to really unravel how intimacy and our unhealed wounds play a part in our relationships, we risk not experiencing the freedom of a healthy relationship with ourselves or those around us. The second great labor concerns our mental health. Understanding our mind and the power of our self-belief is half the battle. We find ourselves in ruts, searching for peace of mind. And while there are modalities to cultivate our mental health (many of which we will discuss in this book), the real work begins with the simple acknowledgment that sometimes we all need support, compassion, and a little bit more, and that there is no shame in that. The third great labor is dealing with grief and loss. Death is the great uniter. We all get a turn in the laborious work of grief and loss. None of us are exempt from this work. And the question is, "How does one continue after experiencing the breath-taking shift of such labor?" How do we carry on in this world while mourning the departure of what was into another? There is a way, and we will talk through it together. And finally, the fourth great labor is contending with the title of being othered. Being a member of the marginalized and dealing with the potential weathering that comes with it can leave you feeling depleted and worn. However, despite the beautiful skin we are wrapped in, gender, sexual orientation, or the body that houses the essence and beauty of who you are, you are worthy of divine bliss, and defiant freedom. You are worthy of taking up space and taking in love. When we truly embrace this truth despite the world we live in, we too can thrive. We will walk through each of these laboring rooms of our lives to finally get off the birthing table, sweaty and out of breath from just trying to make it to the next day, beyond the subsequent frustration or discomfort, and move into a thriving life that is wholly ours. Excerpted from On Thriving: Harnessing Joy Through Life's Great Labors by Brandi Sellerz-Jackson All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
