My Hands

This poem encompasses the care I desire to give you. These are not my original words and I do not take credit for this poem, but this is my desire as your doula. To serve you. To honor your space. Your space is sacred. Your season is sacred. Your journey is sacred. This is your rite of passage.

My hands are in service to you and your baby.

Before I came through the door of your home and into your sacred birthing space, I dedicated them to God and offered them up to be used on your behalf.

I have intentionally trained them and thoughtfully informed them to know which touches are therapeutic, comforting, needful for assisting when things feel scary or are going awry.

My hands are in service to you but…

I use them sparingly, with careful consideration. They do not flit about busy with an agenda. They do not look for ways to be needed. They have nothing to prove.

These hands are ready but they withhold. Not to deprive you of something that you need, but to allow you to see that I trust you. This work you are doing, this death you are dying, this labor you are surrendering to is your rite of passage. And I will not steal that from you or save you from that.

The work of these hands is not primarily or usually used

•   to judge
•   to assess
•   to do for you what you can do yourself
•   to take your husband’s moment to step up and move in and become your hero
• to do for you what you can do yourself
•   to take your partner’s moment to step up and move in and become your hero

When these hands reach out to touch, let it be

•   to affirm
•   to bless
•   to reassure
•   to transmit confidence
•   to steady
•   to pray

These hands are in service to you and your baby.