How Cosleeping Changed My Life

Hey, there. 

I have an intimate share for you tonight. And I have been meditating on this one for a while. And I'm really scared to press send. 

But if you're reading this, there's no going back now. So, tonight I'm sharing about my journey of cosleeping with my daughter Leona, who turns one in two weeks. 

I've been super emotional thinking back on one year of motherhood with her, and when I play the past year back in my head, really what is at the front of my mind is our journey of bedsharing and breastsleeping. It has been THE most special. Like, I-am-a-changed-person special and I-NEED-to-tell-everyone-about-it special. 

Although, two years ago, when my son was one, I would have read the first few lines of this email, or maybe even only just glanced at the subject line, and deleted it. I probably also would have unsubscribed from the list that sent it to me. 

Because at that time, I thought cosleeping was bad. I thought it was weird. I did not understand it or why people would want to do it. And I silently judged those who did. And on top of all that, I thought it was something we were't “allowed” to do. I think I literally even googled if it was illegal or if I could get in trouble if I did end up trying it. 

So here I am now, sharing my story. Because no mom should ever feel like she isn't ALLOWED to do something that feels right to her. Because, back then, even with all the cultural conditioning and pre-conceived narratives and ideas (and lies) I had been fed about cosleeping and baby sleep in general, and the truths I thought I knew, I did feel a longing in my heart and my soul and my bones to be close to my baby at night. 

And I did feel a natural, intuitive desire to curl up with him and let him fit perfectly under my arm and above my knees and let his breath sync up with mine. 

But at that time, even though I could hear and feel those inklings from my own heart, I didn't feel that I had permission to listen. I thought I had to follow the “rules” and do whatever I could do be a good mom, be a good girl, and fit in the lines of the only image of motherhood I had ever known. The one I had been taught was “right”. 

Which definitely did not include bringing my baby into my bed, breastfeeding in public, speaking out about… anything at all, or doing anything at all to make noise or waves. (I told you cosleeping changed me!) 

And I completely get and respect that we all have our ways and our reasons and our own decisions to make about parenting. And that there's way more context and nuance and conversations to be had here about baby sleep than I could ever find the time to type out in one email. And I am not here to tell you what to do with your baby. 

But I am here to give you permission to listen to your innate, powerful inner knowing if it's calling to you, because I wish someone back then had given that to me. 

So here it goes. Part one.

Five days after I gave birth to my daughter, my second baby, someone snarkily asked me if she was ever going to “sleep anywhere but my chest.” Five. Days. In. 
 

I can remember in that moment feeling confused, upset, and judged. I remember feeling like I was being told that I was doing something wrong. I LOVED the feeling of having my baby sleep on my chest. It was like the worlds most magical puzzle piece that fit directly into my own heart. My baby, my daughter, my everything. When we were skin to skin, I was home. 

I had also just had a C-section, so I couldn't get up to put her anywhere else, anyway. I was bleeding, cut open, exhausted, depleted, and vulnerable as all hell, as most 5-day-postpartum mothers are. 

And instead of brushing it off, I remember thinking, wait, is this bad? Should she not be sleeping here? Am I not doing this right? Did I do something wrong? Should she be sleeping somewhere else? At five days in…? 

Cue the shame and self doubt spiral. Cue the questioning of my own intuition.  And cue another attempt of an ass-backwards modern culture that relies on oppressing women and mothers, and keeps us outsourcing our own power and wisdom. WOOF.  

You see, a quick google sesh will tell you that at five days old, a newborn baby still very much thinks it exists only as part of its mother’s body. And actually, this is the baby’s reality for up to nine months. They think their mom and them are one being. 

(So, no, for the record, your five day old baby does NOT need to be sleeping anywhere besides your amazing, beautiful, warm, oxytocin-inducing bosom.)

Outside of that fact, a little more simple research will tell you the endless benefits of mom and baby staying in close proximity during the first days and weeks of life. Separation is actually linked to a cascade of potential dis-ease for both mom and baby.

And yet, we live in a culture that is obsessed with promoting and encouraging and pressuring and even shaming moms into creating independence between them and their babies, from the moment they are born, even though science tell us this is the OPPOSITE of what is going to benefit a postpartum woman and her newborn. Literally the opposite. 

W.T.F.?

So back to the image of me, laying on the couch in my own home, recovering from birth, happily snuggling skin to skin with my beautiful baby, and receiving this off-putting comment. 

At first I was hurt and confused. Shocked. Maybe even embarrassed. And then?

I got MAD. 

Like raging fires of death, mad. Like flames in my eyes, steam out of my ears, fury from the depths of my soul. 

It was like every moment over the last two years that the world attempted to shame my mothering, judge my postpartum body, place unrealistic expectations on me as a mother or woman or human, or keep me quiet for fear of losing my “good girl” or “good mom” status compiled up to this moment. 

I was DONE.

Done trying to please others. Done playing by the rules. Fucking done trying to be the good girl who did the safe thing and fell in line with someone else's expectations. 

Done answering to anyone for MY decisions with what I do with MY baby and MY body in MY own home. Or anywhere I goddamn well please. 

I can't even lay on my own couch with my own newborn baby without someone shoving this absolute mom-shaming bullshit down my throat? At FIVE DAYS IN? 

FUCK this, I thought. This stops NOW. For me, and for all moms. We are DONE. DONE! 

*Pausing here for an oxytocin break (below) and a deeeeep breath (take one). 
 

Ok. We're back. Now, stay with me - and let’s rewind for a second to day one of this postpartum season, during my scheduled C-section. Leona's first moments of life. 

The second she was born, I asked for her to come to straight to my chest. And even before that, I asked in my prenatal appointments. And I asked that morning at the desk when we checked in at 4:45am, I asked in the prep room before surgery, I asked on the table as I got my epidural. And every time I asked, I was told No.

Before my baby was even born, I was fighting to be close to her. And I was losing.

Luckily, I was able to make a plan and take a stand and get her on my chest 5 minutes after birth in the operating room. But man was it a fight, And from that moment on, that's what I continued to do. Fight. For the biologically appropriate and perfectly designed closeness of myself to my baby. 

I fought at 20 minutes after birth when they wanted to take her while I got stitched up.

I fought at 40 minutes after birth when they wanted to take her while I transferred from the table to the gurney.

And I fought ten more times that day when different staff members wanted to separate us at every turn, because I knew despite what was considered “policy”, the safest place for my baby was skin to skin with me. I knew it from research and preparation but even more, I knew it in my bones.

And actually, while I was in the hospital, the WHO came out with new guidelines saying exactly that. 

Those first 24 hours were glorious, empowering, and magical. I felt proud for fighting for what felt right. But they also marked the start of a fire that was about to be set ablaze. And oh boy was it about to BURN baby, burn. 

And along with that raging fire, in the days and weeks and months to come (and now almost a year, she turns one on 11/11!), was about to be an upheaval of everything I thought I knew, and everything I thought I was. 

Leona slept at my side that night, despite the urgent signs all over the hospital room. Despite the objections from the nurses. And even despite my husband gently suggesting we put her in that fucking horrid plastic fish tank of a box on wheels so I could get some sleep. 

And she's slept with me every night since.