Houston Central Doulas is permanently closing. That is the short version.
The long version:
If you have worked with me (Moriah) personally, you know that I’m a person who likes a plan. A schedule. A way things work. And it’s been fun to design systems for you that make hiring a doula faster, more reliable, and more connected. Above all, I’ve wanted you to feel safe and supported. Then that pandemic came along, and I’m honestly not sure how to keep the company alive and to keep you safe at the same time.
I’m not willing to go to one client’s house, and then bounce to a few others over the course of my normal routine. Because it will keep me up at night worrying. So the socially conscious thing to do was to go on hiatus and play the waiting game. But then (the good news), we bought a farm in east Texas. Because why not?
If you’ve taken childbirth education classes with me in the past, you know that I want to know all about your plan for birth and postpartum and for everyone to have their eyes on that goal. Before I hear the details of your plan, we talk about worst case scenarios so that we have them covered, know what to do, and can move on and focus only on your dreams from that point forward. I feel like I’m hitting the Big Red Button on worst case scenarios. This was so not my birth plan for year four of the business. But I’m going to go with it so that you’re not stuck in the same limbo I’ve been carrying in my mind for the past three months. I used the BRAIN acronym that I teach to get to this point, and now I guess I’m a farmer (insert nervous laughter).
I am immensely grateful to have known you. I have always done my best to keep professional boundaries, but I think of many of you as my friends. Three months into quarantine, and I still get a case of the sads knowing that I’m not doing my normal shifts and house calls and seeing you and children that I have known for years. Thank you for four years of support, and for trusting the team and I to care for your family.
There are some of you that I will never forget because we baked bread together, or danced when the baby fell asleep, or I was privileged enough to see your victory face when your babies were born. I got into this work to be of service, and didn’t expect much in return. I feel like we experienced a rad and crazy adventure together, and everyone was changed for the better. It was unforgettable in the best of ways.
I’m going to miss you.
Here’s a parting thought. You’re in control. You’ve got this. I’ve met some of you on your “worst day” (your words). I’ve seen you when you think you’ve lost control. When the house is a mess. The kids are eating a strange assortment of pantry finds. Your hair is a mess and you’re leaking. We meet in the kitchen at midnight because I’m warming a bottle and you’re reheating the heat pack for the afterpains. You’re so tired that after you sleep you wake up and say to me, “I could have sworn your hair was blond.” You’re pooping on me during labor and I have to say, “I don’t care. Stop caring about me. Focus on the work you’re doing to get baby here.” Some of you have screamed in my face during transition. One of you has an amniotic sac that ended up in my shoe.
And still, you have been leading examples of what it looks like to be in control. You are excellent moms and dads. You are what families should be when everything is going well. You’re amazing people. You’re funny, authentic, loving, and doing the best you can every single day. Just keep doing the best you can, and I trust that we’ll get through this pandemic. And parenting. And whatever comes next. (I don’t know what to do about the aliens or meth gators, though.)