Nothing is for nothing
Everything is for something
Hello dear readers,
It’s been a few minutes. December is right on top of us. The solstice already behind us. We’re in that formless place between holidays and years when it’s hard to remember what date or day it is, but we know the end — and beginning — of the year is nigh.
In the meantime, I had a daughter. I have and will forever have a daughter. In some realm of reality perhaps I always had a daughter it’s just that now she’s outside of my body, experiencing this December, in this world— currently sleeping in my arms.
To say this period has been intense is a brief understatement, as you might imagine. A deluge of emotions (many peoples’), fluids, sensations, needs, and responsibilities. And then again, this period of time on earth is intense.
I visited the Natural History Museum with my family recently. A good way to pass time with a two-year-old in the rain and to gain some existential perspective. Why did dinosaurs evolve to be so humungous? Stuff was wild back then. And earth — both the climate and the continents — was so cozy. One asteroid, an unfortunate chain of events, a coupla ice ages and now we’re tiny, chilly, and fractured.
Damn, a lot can change in a moment, or in 66 million years. How do we begin to prepare?
In general, I’m barely sleeping, so words float through my mind but are taking longer to settle on the page. I miss you and I’m coming back. It’s an artist’s ache — postpartum when you want to create — you are teeming with ideas, actually — but literally cannot yet. Because you need at least two hands and a clear-ish mind and moment of peace. The other night, I thought of an incredible thing I wanted to write to you, in just a certain way, but it was swallowed by fractured sleep.
I know deep down it will return and more is coming. Right now, it just is what it is — the forever lesson.
I began 2025 with one child and ended it with two. Who am I? I continue to ask, as I should. Last time I had a child, which was just one other time, Birdseed became (temporarily) tinged with the dream-haze of the postpartum in various ways. I am predicting this may happen again, maybe, in some ways. And I’m mentioning this now so it doesn’t confuse or surprise you, especially new readers, since this is not a “dispatch on motherhood.” But it is a dispatch on life — its glitter and grime — of which parenthood (and more broadly caretaking of self / other, as well as bodily + identity transformation) is foundational.
It’s not so much that my plan is to write about postpartum but that everything I write cannot help but to float through the sometimes-rosy, sometimes-blackened, always hazy, special lens of postpartum.
If postpartum doesn’t appeal to you, or land, or, in contrast, activates (t r i g g e r z) you in any way, by all means sail on by. But I do believe that everything is everything (in the sense that everything is nothing at all) and there is a through line to be found or a seed of wisdom to be swallowed. The beloved Buddhist concept of emptiness reminds us of the cold, hard truth of interdependent arising. Meaning that nothing exists or occurs in isolation, holding essential truth and value on its own. Things take on meaning relative to the context and experience around them. We are all connected, or none of us are connected.
You might see, then, that the experience of postpartum, or pregnancy, parenting, etc. — anything that may seem (and indeed in some ways be) niche or irrelevant to YOU — contains perfectly relevant refracted nuggets useful in your own life. But that is for you to remain open to, and do the math on.
Personally, that is the view I’m looking for. So stick around on this lazy river, and let’s see where it goes. If you want to continuously grow, evolve, and expand, you will.
This was in my drafts, something I was chewing on before birthing my daughter, and I want to return to it: Nothing is for nothing; everything is for something.
I was telling myself this as I prepared for my daughter’s birth. Because I was scared that my earnest, honest, relentless efforts to prepare for a VBAC (vaginal birth after C-section) or TOLAC (trial of labor after C-section) would feel pointless if things didn’t unfold that way. Which of course they didn’t.
Once again, I was forced to face my inner-vitriol that spat into my inner face: “what a waste!” I feel like a fool. Why am I so terrified of waste? Wasted effort, wasted time, wasted energy and opportunity. You know that saying you can find on home goods in TJ Maxx, “shoot for the moon and you land among the stars.” Well my unforgiving inner-critic might add, “…but it’s an embarrassing failure because you still missed the moon, and why didn’t you just shoot for the stars to begin with? because now people are going to whisper about you, ‘look at that girl who thought she could get the moon and didn’t — who does she think she is?!’”
WOW. Wow. Take a breath, inner critic. That’s not really that catchy, would definitely not be marketable on a cute sign, and is not very supportive either.
This is one of many things vulnerability can stir up.
And there is a deep vulnerability in the delta between what I wanted and tried for and what actually happened. There is an overwhelming vulnerability in accepting the reality that while my effort and attitude are in my control, the outcome is not.
Birth, like death, is something we’d like to have as much control over as possible and yet ultimately have very little. My OB told me 90% of birth is out of our control. I’m not sure where she got that statistic, she probably made it up. But it felt comforting to accept. So the 10%; the 10%! That is my sphere of “control.” (Cue doing *the most* even in the smallest sphere of control).
I prepared to birth my daughter in ways I have never prepared for anything before in my life. Not a half marathon, not a very important speech or job interview, not a wedding. I prepared so much that I was aghast to realize how ill-prepared I was for my son’s birth. Not that it would have mattered???
When I was pregnant with my son, my way of preparation was diving into death study, spelunking old wounds, and inner child work. In some ways not the most relevant work before you need to take care of a newborn, but in other ways it was spot on. Part of it was to make amends with layers of my own grief — personal losses of miscarriage and infertility, family trauma and estrangement, lost relationships, shedding identities. Part of it was to build my muscle tone for being with fear of the unknown. If i can stand next to death, then certainly I can stand next to birth and parenthood, which I have come to experience as daily joys and losses.
I also listened to hours of these calming, creepy birth affirmations that referred to contractions as waves bringing me closer to meeting my baby. At 2am on the day I suddenly knew my son would arrive, likely by C-section, I sat alone on the couch in the dark and sobbed. There were so many reasons to sob and one of them was all the time I’d wasted listening to those labor affirmations which now seemed pointless.
It took me just a short while to pivot and understand that the contractions I needed to ride were not uterine in nature, but rather of soul and spirit. Deep wrinkles in time and space that unearthed new realities unfolding in my life. Sicknesses, opportunities, and the meeting of my son four weeks sooner than planned. Every day I live on this earth I will be grateful I have had those four extra weeks. Nothing is for nothing.
While pregnant with my daughter, the more I let go of the outcome, the deeper into preparation I could go. But also, the prep, the tremendous effort I levied, was with an outcome in mind. Careful, heartfelt measures to prepare my home space, head space, and heart space for a long, spontaneous labor. Meanwhile I knew this may not be accessible to me.
The toggling between what you want and what is can seem frantic. It’s checking the overview snapshot directions to a destination but then allowing yourself to zoom back in to the drive and lovingly appreciate each detail as you pass by it.
I continued to let go of what might happen and dive deep into what was happening now. This was a unique experience for me, and something I credit to my daughter. She’s helping me realize, for someone who loves the unknown, how much I try to shape and structure it with control.
So what I’m slowly, reluctantly accepting / being forced to accpt, which I want to share with you — though maybe you already get this — is that we don’t really know what we’re preparing for. We think we do, and maybe we just need a point on the map. But we’re actually working toward something unknown, always.
We have to commit to our effort as earnest and worthwhile, even if it does not ladder up to the outcome anticipated. Like, we need to train for the marathon as if we’re actually running the marathon, even if we end up with a terrible injury at the last moment that takes us out completely. We need to lovingly procure the birthing kit and birthing pool even if we end up under the bright lights of an operating room. We fall deeply in love although the person we love could break our heart or be taken from us in an instant.
Can there be anything more poignant than that searching, reaching, heartfelt effort toward something knowing it could entirely slip away?
I think that’s a vulnerability I’d like to take into 2026. Less outcome focus and more open-hearted effort. Why the fuck not. Parenthood has a way of pummeling you into a softer more relenting self. I felt that with one child, and I feel that even more with two. Especially at this tender early stage. Balls are dropping like every moment is a new year. You let go more because you literally have no choice - so much control just gets ripped from your claws.
It’s challenging to let go of an outcome, but can be as mechanical and simple as changing a lens on a camera. It doesn’t have to undermine your effort toward it. It just liberates you from the illusion of control. I’m trusting that none of my effort, energy, or intention will have been for naught. It will always be valuable. There is no such thing as wasted effort if you are breathing and showing up.
A teacher of mine talks about how nature is always organizing in our favor. Nothing is ever regressing, although it may feel like that. Nothing is wasted, every step is forward, even if we are in a labyrinth and cannot always see that.
Although it was not the outcome I arrived at, the effort I took to prepare for a VBAC was worth it because it allowed me to unlock new dimensions of my voice, courage, and inner adventurer. The preparation gave me joy and purpose and settled me deeper into my body.
It prepared me to sit here, feeling like my body is falling apart, leaking nourishment from all places, congested, exhausted, bedraggled, and reflect on the Buddhist concept of emptiness. It prepared me to remember— feel my ethereal nature even in the darkest, lowest moments of postpartum.
A retrospective on 2025 for you:
What did you plan, try, prepare, apply for (or not!), or hope for this year that did not come to be? (e.g. what felt like it was for nothing)
What did that actually show you, give you, lead you to, or redirect you?
And looking ahead to 2026:
How do you want to show up more or differently in your efforts? (and what DO you want to put effort toward?)
What would it mean to set huge, audacious goals and hold them lightly?
Love ya, see you again soon.