I remember touching my mom’s belly when she was pregnant and feeling close to the magic of life growing inside her. I remember my parents holding my sister and I on their laps as they told us we’d be having not one, but two new siblings. I remember the powder blue knit sweater my mom wore in those early days. 

The impact of those babies not making it earthside is still felt in my family today. So much of that experience has rippled from the care we never received during that time. Public health failed my parents, and without resources for their grief and ongoing postpartum care for my mom, there was little left for the little ones who watched it all happen and who carried on without the siblings there was a room waiting for.

I choose the work of a doula as a powerful stance in solidarity and kinship with people who are Black, Brown, Indigenous, pregnant and trans, and who are living at intersections that complicate their relationship to receiving affirming health care, safe deliveries, and supportive reproductive choices. 

My life and work have motivated me to create thoughtful and creative approaches to navigate our healthcare system that center harm reduction and transformative change. 

I come from a long line of people with uteruses who have experienced many manifestations of patriarchy, white supremacy, and fatphobia while receiving health care, including my own trauma in utero. Many of my skills, instincts, and insights as a doula come from my lived experiences as a queer, mixed-race, disabled, fat, nonbinary person and the shared experiences of family members, friends, and peers.

In my previous work in queer and trans arts and as a youth leader in the HIV movement, I have always had a personal investment in what I offer as my contribution to my communities. I see my doula services as a vocation, a discipline, and a daily practice to create the liberatory futures we long for. 

Em