Casey

Casey (32 - they/them) and Adrian (2)

Minneapolis, MN

How has parenthood impacted your body image? 

Because I am trans (non-binary), I knew pregnancy would be a massive challenge for me in terms of body image. I didn't even know how I would dress/present myself to the world, given the inundation of gendered stereotypes that come with a pregnant person's experience. Although I felt like I was agreeing to sort of willingly stifle my own gender identity journey in many ways for that time period because of the sheer lack of resources to support folx like me, it was also an experience I had always wanted to have. Holding those two things at once was delicate, often times devastating and dysphoric, but also incredibly beautiful and affirming.

I went from not wanting to chestfeed at all to somehow figuring it out with Adrian and ultimately chestfeeding him for 2 years and 3 months. It was a meaningful experience which, now that it is over, I'm really proud of myself for doing. It was excruciating and also eye-opening all at once. Having my body "back" now, in a sense, has left me feeling more empowered about the fact that my trans body is valid and incredible, and I have more confidence in my own body in a way I have truly never felt before. I'm super proud to be trans and even more empowered now in standing in my truth and knowing that I'm not cisgender. I want to emphasize very clearly that my experience isn't reflective of every trans person's experience - I know most people know that, but I want it to be out there. Everyone's experience truly is valid, and I obviously have privilege in ways others don't. I'm excited to see where this journey of gender identity and body empowerment takes me. Most importantly, I am so, so grateful for the privilege of being Adrian's parent. He is my greatest joy and is such an amazing human.

What was your postpartum experience?

My conception/fertility journey was long and exhausting, and I relate to many others who have gone through that struggle. When I finally conceived, I didn't want to believe it, because it seemed so far from possible at that point. The world of infertility often seems so isolating, because those who haven't experienced it naturally can't understand how devastating and excruciating that process can be. It was like being thrust into an entirely different social group with all these new terms and medical processes. As a queer/trans person, I also faced a lot of very blatant discrimination when it came to fertility treatments when compared to cisgender/straight people going through the exact same processes that I did. The health care system simply isn't set up to assist folx like me, and it was a challenging time. The amount of advocacy a pregnant person has to do in order to get truly patient-centered care was alarming to me.

I experienced precipitous labor, which is an abnormally fast birth. The onset of contractions and the ways that labor presents do not follow what you expect of a "typical" birth (whatever that means!), and it was really frightening and confusing - and indescribably painful. It felt like one long, never-ending contraction, and I couldn't breathe or truly even understand that I was having a baby in that moment. I had a lot of people tell me afterwards that I was "lucky," but to be honest, it was incredibly traumatic, both physically and mentally. I was 10cm dilated by the time I got to the hospital. I gave birth on my hands and knees thanks to the assistance of my midwife, and having had that experience and knowing what it feels like, I cannot believe we essentially force folx in labor to do anything other than what their bodies are telling them to do in that moment.

In the end, I still wonder how so many people who have given birth talk about it like it's a single moment in time, and often the comments we hear in everyday life make it seem like birth isn't actually really traumatic on one's body. It's a major event. When we talk about "postpartum," I absolutely love the idea of a 4th trimester, because for me, the physical and emotional effects of pregnancy and giving birth still linger over two years later and have forever changed me. I always find others' birth stories to be amazing, and exchanging birth stories with others has been so helpful in my own journey of healing. I hope we can move towards normalizing conversations about both the good and traumatic parts of pregnancy/birth/parenthood - and to stop regulating each others' bodies when it comes to these massively personal experiences and decisions.

What is your truth? 

I think everyone faces trauma and stigma and judgment, and everyone has things about them that make them experience shame. We have a culture that is designed to reinforce certain ideas as "normal" or "acceptable." We tend to want to silence people who challenge our long-held viewpoints, and we have a really hard time listening when marginalized folx are sharing their stories about their own experiences, especially when it comes to birth, gender presentation and parenting. I want that to change. I just want to emphasize how important it is to know that you do not have to follow anyone else's idea of beauty, of body "standards," of how you present yourself in terms of your gender or any other identity, or of how you should love or how you should parent or how you should move about the world. Our bodies are incredible - they are our OWN bodies to claim, not anybody else's - and our voices matter. Nobody should feel pressured to have children, to not have children, to feel criticized about their bodies, or to feel like they have to hide their experiences of loss and grief. I truly believe that the way to chip away at this stigma is to continue to share our own stories and show those who can't do so, for so many valid reasons, that they are not alone and that others feel the way they do, too.

Why did you choose to participate in this movement and share your story? 

I have long been supportive of this project, and I would scroll across a trans person and their story and I would think, "They are so brave. I could never be that vulnerable." But I realized how powerful that vulnerability and visibility is, and I wanted to stand in solidarity with those parents, because I know what a struggle all of this can be. They inspired me. We exist, but we're often excluded entirely from conversations around pregnancy, birth, reproductive rights and parenting. I think that sometimes the most amazing thing we can do for our little ones is to stand firmly and unapologetically in our own truths and identities so that one day, they can have their own individual voices about their own powerful and beautiful stories. I am truly grateful for every single human (especially those in our little 4TB group) who has stepped up to share their personal, painful, and really courageous stories with all of us through this project, and I am honored to add my voice to it. 

Sam Dayze

Sam Dayze (33 - he/him). Parent to Starren (10 - she/her), Finnick (5 - she/her), and Shelter (3 - he/him)

Mobile, AL | New Orleans, LA

“I’ve had one miscarriage. My partner has had two. All of our pregnancies have been through at home artificial insemination. She was pregnant with what was going to be our first child when we were on our way to Orlando with friends. We got in a car wreck, and she miscarried the day after. It was hard, and we stopped trying for awhile. When we were ready to try again, we decided we’d both try to conceive. I conceived right away, but I miscarried at around 6 weeks. We found out she was pregnant a week later. I had so many emotions—excitement, fear, jealousy. My loss definitely sent me into a pretty deep depression it was hard to work through, and it was gut wrenching to reconcile that with the happy we’re-having-a-baby feelings I was also experiencing, and it was even harder to let go of the fear that we were going to lose this one too. But then she was born, and all was well. When our oldest child was two, we decided to try again, and my partner miscarried around 6 weeks. It was devastating, for her especially. We tabled having another baby for another two years, and then she still wasn’t ready to try pregnancy again, so I carried that one...and I spent the entire pregnancy scared I would lose the baby, at first because I’d had a loss before and after that because I developed a high risk condition.

How has parenthood impacted your body image?

I was sexually abused as a child. I always hated my body, because it was used against me. I self harmed. I didn’t want people to look at me or notice me. So my clothes were always oversized. I still struggle with binge eating disorder. I was the person wearing a jacket in 97 degree weather. Having kids forced me to be a lot more cognizant of all of that, and to do the work to process it, because I didn’t want them carrying the same baggage. I’m a lot more appreciative of my body now. This body was used to hurt me, but this body also crafted two babies, carried one to term and through birth, nursed that child for three and a half years, fed a few others through milk donation, and fed my third child who I didn’t birth. I’m especially proud I helped feed our third baby. He was born at 31 weeks via cesarean, because my partner developed severe preeclampsia. Between her and me and many milk donors, he got the human milk he needed to thrive.

Parenthood, especially parenting Finnick, also helped me understand my gender and start doing things for my body that made it feel more ME. Researching things for her—first when her presentation was consistently gender non-conforming from the time she began talking and reaching for clothes and other things on her own, and again when she was “not a boy, just a Finnick!”, and then again when she said she’s a girl and changed her pronouns to she and her—helped me put words to things I’d been feeling for years but didn’t have the language for. I started shopping a little differently, wearing my hair differently, adjusting my language, and feeling more ME in my body. In June I had surgery. My insurance wouldn’t cover top surgery, but they covered a reduction, and I asked my doctors to please take off as much as possible, and adjust the areola size and position...when I woke up and looked down, I just felt such profound relief I cried. I still do sometimes. This body fits who I am so much better now. I’m still the jackets in July guy though.

What was your postpartum experience?

I was sick when I was pregnant with Finnick. I had hyperemesis. I developed a heart arrhythmia. It was a never ending round of midwife appointments, high risk OB appointments, cardiology appointments, electrophysiology appointments , and multiple ER trips and hospitalizations, all between working full time and parenting a 5 year old. I was exhausted and full of anxiety, but I was also dealing with all of these feelings of nothing about my body or my self feeling right anymore. Discomfort with some aspects of womanhood wasn’t new to me—my kids call me Nova, because my partner was Mom, and none of the mother words ever felt comfortable or right for me. But pregnancy is when I first really started verbalizing that I didn’t feel altogether female. I was so overwhelmed I didn’t have time to think of what I expected postpartum. My energy went to coping with my fears surrounding delivery because of my health, but none of them came to pass. I had the quiet, unmedicated vaginal delivery I wanted with our midwife, backed by the high risk obstetrics team, that we as a family didn’t get with our first baby, who was born via emergency cesarean.

But while labor was a breath of fresh air after a miserable pregnancy, postpartum was...it was difficult. Unlike our oldest baby, Finnick cried, for hours on end. I remember listening to Demons by Imagine Dragons on repeat, or sitting in the bathtub with her cradled in my arms, with the water running and her whole body submerged except for her face, or wearing her in a carrier all day and night, because those were the only things that helped calm her down. I struggled with nursing in the beginning. She had jaundice, but it was so slight they discharged us home and had us come back every day for heel sticks, thinking it would resolve with frequent nursing and summer sunlight.

At eight days old, she was finally hospitalized with dehydration and a bilirubin of 23. I felt like a failure. Sleep was rare. At two weeks old, the pediatrician told me she was still losing weight. Again, I felt like a failure. So there was home healthcare and lactation consultants, and trying to figure out the problem, and finally at over a month old, she got back to her birth weight. I had to return to work at six weeks postpartum because I ran out of paid sick leave and couldn’t afford unpaid time. When I went to work and she got my milk in a bottle, she started refusing to nurse. And I felt like a failure again. We worked through that with sweat and tears, and then sometimes I’d have to leave a shift on my lunch break just to hold her for 20 minutes and nurse her while my partner sat in a quiet room because the baby had been screaming all night.

At three months postpartum, I had a cardiac ablation because medication still wasn’t controlling the arrythmia that didn’t go away post birth. I had complications involving defibrillation, and I returned to work a few days later because I couldn’t afford not to. After surgery, my milk supply tanked...and I felt like a failure again while I worked through that. It was just...hard. And isolating. And exhausting. And someone was always touching me. And it was never quiet. I constantly felt like I couldn’t breathe through the anxiety. I loved nursing but hated my chest more than ever, and I’d hated and resented it all my life already. My dysphoria bloomed, but I didn’t fully understand what it was or how to quantify it for a few more years.

Seeking out a purpose helped me cope. My pregnancy struggles taught me that many people don’t have supportive bedside care and advocation for their emotional needs and their birth plans, much less while managing high risk conditions. I had support a lot of people don’t get, and yet I found myself still lacking some of the care and help I needed. There aren’t enough midwives. There isn’t enough pregnancy, labor and postpartum support. There isn’t enough queer competent care. So I made a plan to go back to school and be some of that support for someone, and now I’m a labor nurse at the same hospital in which my kids were born.

Things got better over time. My milk supply went back up. I found a parenting support group. And we reached out to family for help. People from the group or a few family members would keep Finnick for a few hours at a time so we could breathe. My father in law came over and rocked her on his chest all night more than once so we could get more than 2 hours of sleep. At six months old, she started crying less, though things were still tough for her, and we didn’t know why. And when she was two we learned her 4th trimester struggle was because she had sensory processing disorder and was overwhelmed by all the things, and now we know she is autistic as well, as is my partner, and possibly me. Occupational therapy and learning how to help her navigate this world and accommodate her sensory and communication needs made a world of difference.

What is your truth?

You’re not failing at this. It’s hard. It’s really hard, and we have nothing in place to ease that burden. We have no pregnancy or parental leave. We have little access to the full spectrum of healthcare. We have no reliable safety nets. We have unhealthy work expectations and low wages. You are not failing at parenting. The system we have in place is failing you.

Why did you choose to participate in this movement and share your story?

Because there are times I feel invisible, and I want to be seen. Because I am still doing the work of getting comfortable in my body, and I always will be. Because ash’s photos bring me joy. Because I want people to know it’s ok to struggle with pregnancy and parenting, and to not love every aspect of either. Because there are other parents like me out there, and I want them to know they are loved and they are valid, and it’s okay to not know the words for yourself or to discover them at any age or to just be a person without words or labels.

Nathan D.

The phenomenal Nathan D. and Anaya (15 months). 

Nathan's journey to parenthood is different than most as he is transgender. Nathan lived as a female for his first 17 years before beginning his transition. He always knew he wanted to have kids and though he had a double mastectomy at 18, he hadn't had a hysterectomy. Nathan is adopted himself, so he considered adopting but he got pregnant and he and his partner decided to just go for it. 

Body dysphoria was a big struggle when he began to show at 5 or 6 months and everyone assumed that he was female. The point came where he needed to wear women's maternity clothing and he grew out his hair. It was a difficult process but Nathan knows who he is and tried to rationalize that the pregnancy was a relatively short time of his life to face this. Family members questioned his transition and wondered if he was going to be Anaya's mom or stay male. He had to reassure them that he was a man, he just didn't fit into the gender binary. He is male but he does have a vagina and can carry baby, and so he did. 

Though it was a lot to wrap their heads around his family remained supportive and he had an OBGYN that was very trans friendly and respected his name and pronouns. His medical team were supportive, honest, and never transphobic about anything. They worked with him in his desires to have as natural of a birth as possible even though that was not the eventual outcome. During pregnancy Nathan's hormones were all over the place and he needed to be put on Zoloft to help him manage and regulate. Being in the hospital for birth, brought about some difficulty. Nathan was misgendered by the staff quite frequently but through it all he kept reminding himself that they just didn't understand, they were used to seeing women. 

After 20+ hours of labor, Nathan got an epidural because his contractions were on top of each other and he was only 5 cms dilated. His doctor warned he would likely need to deliver via cesarean as he was not progressing with Pitocin and other interventions. Once in the OR Nathan began having panic attacks and as soon as they got Anaya out they needed to put him under to manage his blood pressure and bleeding. Nathan woke up in recovery with his partner and baby and felt like he had missed her birth. He immediately felt depressed and longed for the skin to skin and connection he had hoped for. He had lost so much blood he needed two transfusions and found himself terrified to hold his daughter. The first three days of Anaya's life, Nathan felt too weak to connect and wondered if he never would. Once home, Nathan was on his own to recover and care for his daughter while his partner worked but they got through it. Remaining on Zoloft postpartum helped Nathan to cope and after about a month he began to feel much more confident and connected.

Nathan got sober in July of 2013, he had been pregnant before, in January of that same year and chose to have an abortion. The state of his life at the time made it clear that having a baby was not the right option, but that experience helped him see that he wanted to be sober. Nathan's abortion was January 19, 2013 and was one of the worst days of his life. Anaya, however, was born, two years to the day later. This amazing coincidence has helped him to see that she's always been with him. 

Learning how to live and cope sober and then learning how to be a parent was a lot in such a short span of time but it's gotten easier. Nathan hasn't always had an easy time caring about himself but having his daughter and partner in the picture keeps him grounded. At the end of the day, she's his reason.  

After living as a female for 17 years, Nathan knows how hard it is growing up as a girl in today's society. There is so much pressure and so many messages about how you should be and how you should look but it's all lies. Everyone is beautiful in their own way and every one is different. When Nathan got pregnant he thought he was the only one but thanks to the internet and other people speaking out was able to find community. If sharing his story can allow one person to relate to him or feel beautiful in their own skin, it's worth it. When Anaya is older, Nathan wants her to see this picture and hopefully find herself more comfortable and more body positive because of it.