Dear Doula Diary,
AJ is short for Anjanette. My real name will be used going forward.
Oh goodness, diary. So much to share. I’ve spilled so much of my family’s tea that I just know my ancestors are waiting for me with the belt. Heaven is about to witness its first smackdown. You guys better not just stand there & watch. Please send help.
This is my journal entry from yesterday. I started writing in my journal again. I stopped keeping a diary after I found the pages of my diary floating across my college campus. I banged on the door of my besties. They’re running around looking for ski masks. I’m begging them to just grab those pages before anyone finds them. We stepped out the door of our dorm and realized it was too late. People were standing there, reading the pages of my diary. I told them good night. It was 6:00 AM. I felt defeated. Thank you, besties. For snatching those pages out of the people’s hands. I couldn’t go home like I wanted to. I wanted to drop out. But I stayed. I always stay.
Where I messed up? I signed each page with my name. Y’all, that’s not it. I didn’t need to sign my name, my Catholic School penmanship would’ve given me way. Catholic School girls have the same handwriting. Bubbly, happy, beautiful handwriting. I blamed myself for that day. Sometimes it’s easier to blame yourself than to realize the world is just so cruel.
I never intended to write a whole book in an hour and eighteen minutes. I’m not sure what happened. I can barely formulate a logical thought sitting in front of my computer.
I’m taking a big chance of being roasted. There’s always that one person. God, are you there? I know you’re there. I just want to know how that one person always finds me. You know I’m Brooklyn down to the socks. Why, God? You know exactly what you’re doing, I’m just finally catching on. It’s taking great bravery to even post this. I don’t wish to hold God’s beer, anymore. I love you, God. I learned a big lesson that I will share with your children. Even the (redacted)…
Sorry, God. I will behave, at least I will try.
Chapter 1: What up, Fam.
Staten Islanders and the surrounding boroughs, east coast to west coast and every single state in-between, Jesus the Messiah, expectant families living deep in the NYC trenches, my family, friends and loved ones, please get in here. Y'all, I know we aren't going to act like June didn't just try to take us out.
Now we're getting flipped into the 4th of YouLie. IKYL if you think I'm waving around a red, white, and who? It's the USA’s 250-year anniversary, and the people are celebrating this fever dream. They deserve to. The fireworks will not stop because my community has been exhausted. They deserve to do it big. But, there’s a caveat.
Lady Liberty, my bestie. I know your words by heart. Please look away. You offered people the opportunity for freedom, you don’t need to see me flame through the people and administration that goes against your words.
Bruh, it’s been so hot, 20+ degrees above average. The news warned people to stay inside. I feel like God was like, don’t y’all celebrate this 250th anniversary. That warning was given to us days before the holiday came through. No sonic booms while your sisters & brothers are in terrible pain. Well, they didn’t listen. These people left their communities, that’s where things start looking really different. Fireworks over the Brooklyn Bridge that caught on fire. People stuck in subway stations fanning themselves. Hell is hot, isn’t it? They were stuck trying to get home. The alligators are taking over Florida. I wouldn’t be surprised to see Jesus walking down my block atp.
I digress, and I don’t apologize in advance for what I'm about to say.
I'm on HRT now. I'm turning into a giggly, husbandless trad wife. I'm wearing an anime kitten-ears headband, I have no idea what is happening to me. It's almost like I'm evolving into different versions of what I thought were my past selves, only older. Plus, I have morning sickness symptoms for 13 hours each day. These cakes aren't caking because I’m losing weight, I'm over everything at this point.
I haven't slept yet. I've been up since yesterday. My neighbors had the nerve to have a party with pulsing LED lights and didn't think to invite me. Actually, they don't know me, and they live a few blocks away, but I saw those LEDs and someone twerking, so I was totally okay with trying to get some sleep despite it.
I finally got up at 4 AM, when the music stopped. Nothing surprises me anymore. I was craving chocolate chip cookies, and I might've bought them. I also might've eaten them in my car before I made it home. I’m a doula, in Staten Island. I call myself a birthkeeper, that just keeps the birth space peaceful. My neighbors see me coming home at that time and just smile at me. This is just the life I live. Last year, I started calling myself The Barefoot Doula.
My mother called me Barefoot Contessa, before Ina decided to swoop in. This was in the 1980s, back when I’d fling my new jellies off just to feel the grass on my feet. The bottom of my feet were blacker than the night sky when I returned home from playing all day. I remember that era of freedom before the crack epidemic and the AIDS crisis reshaped so many of our communities.
Chapter 2: The Weight We Carry
Listen, guys, there's so much more happening than the average person knows. Every system is fighting for its life. The cuts that just recently came in threaten community inclusion within the special needs population. We fought for that for so long. So damn long. Many people know I've been an advocate in the special needs community for my brother. He is autistic and nonverbal. I moved to Staten Island, the North Shore, the diverse shore, to be closer to him. He lives on the South Shore, and I knew I couldn't be his next-door neighbor the way I wanted to be. I'd be in prison with fresh cornrows. I know some woman would've snatched me up and made me her you-know-what. No ma'am. No ma'am. No sitting in central booking during the weekend for me. Locked-down facilities terrify me. Six months in Bellevue Hospital as a student nurse in every psychiatric unit will do it. I was traumatized by my experience. I avoid pediatric nursing for the same reason.
I learned that this world doesn't know how to handle people's pain the way others do. I was hated for that by the nurses who couldn't stand me. Inmates, criminals, special needs, substance abuse, racist patients who spat on me, I took them. People ask what's wrong with me, that I'm okay with walking straight into the lion's den. Me, personally, through my own lived experiences and my relationship with God, I believe people are inherently good until the world gets ahold of them. Catholic School taught me that. Catholic School saved me. I learned there that God never abandoned me. My career solidified it.
Sometimes it's their own parents who brought them into the world that hurt them first. Maybe it was the boys who gathered in groups around us as we walked home from school. Maybe it was something that was said that hurt someone in a place they didn't know existed. It doesn't matter how other people interpret your experience. If you've experienced trauma, I'm the one you want to work with. I've never said that publicly. If you've experienced trauma, I see you because I have experienced trauma too. I've turned my grief into an entire business because I care about you & your children & their children. For some reason, I just do.
Chapter 3: The Weight of reality
Google AI, the worst thing known to man, is used by expectant families because it’s so tough to find a local doula. Families are cringing seeing the birthworker influencers because they oversaturate the algorithm. I feel that’s why families go to agencies. It is easier. The agencies (not all) don’t even respect us. They’re taking 40% of the NYC Medicaid rate ($1500-8 visits + birth) from doulas and paying them $25/hr. Our sister, the other largest healthcare market, my Cali doulas, their reimbursement is more than twice that. They fought tooth and nail for that. NY can’t fight anymore without putting ourselves on the radar and potentially getting our Medicaid doula benefit completely demolished.
I made $250 after supporting a family for seven months. My client sent me pictures of her new baby as I waited for her to call me in for her birth. This was on Christmas Eve, I told my family to have fun without me. I was so proud of her despite being completely shattered inside. She didn’t say thank you, to me. She’s one of the few clients that just stopped speaking to me.
The contagion goes deep. Deep enough that I personally witnessed AI tell me that I wasn’t the choice for a conservative family on Staten Island. It also shared that the algorithm is created by the people we can’t stand. In essence, it admitted to taking bread out of my mouth, to put it in the mouths of popular doulas. I did all that AI prompt garbage I learned from my friend, who knows AI well, trying to redirect it. It stood firm in its convictions, until it realized it was talking about me.
The Quiet Storm.
I'm born on the cusp of Scorpio and Sagittarius. I didn't ask to be a cusp baby. I learned two weeks ago that each cusp has a name, and I'm part of the Cusp of Revolution. Idek what that means because I’m still learning myself. God created the stars before Adam & Eve got turnt. Trust me, the stars tell a story. I learned that from a doctor, my next-door neighbor. Your story is in the stars too. Give me two minutes, I’ll show you something that will blow your damn mind.
That’s the only reason why I stay booked & not busy. My life and knowledge don’t exist in containers. Everything is fluid, to me. I don’t have a work persona and a home persona. It didn’t help that my coworkers, fellow healthcare professionals, have yelled out YERRRRR as soon as I step onto the unit. Because YERRRRRRRR let me put my coat down and let’s save some lives, y’all.
I don’t wish to be busy. All this went over my head until I started my business because I was always too busy. Being chronically busy (work/parenthood/that man whose phone you try to go through knowing you don’t need to look through his phone, Queen) or under prolonged stress (life/that man who is sleeping right next to you as you try to open his lock screen) really does affect your brain. Neuroscience is a whole rabbit hole I readily jump into. I walked away from a master’s in education with 2 classes left. The second master’s I walked away from. I paid my student loans with an attitude. My mom needed me. That’s all I needed to jump ship.
The gag is, I learned to teach people to believe in themselves. I’ve taught doctors with close to 40 years in the game. The doctors came running to me afterwards, scratching their necks asking for more. Those people are my family. We learn from one another all the time. My lawyer drops mics all day, I’m just happy that he shares that with me.
Number of my clients that had inductions at 39 weeks & were completely medically stable (within the past year): Zero.
I help expectant families to work with their providers. You’ll be surprised how much magic happens when appointments expand past 15 minutes.
Some providers may be using the ARRIVE trial to support elective induction at 39 weeks without fully considering whether its findings can be generalized to hospitals outside the research setting.
The ARRIVE trial tells us what happened within the hospitals that participated in the study. It doesn't automatically mean every labor and delivery unit across the country has the same conditions needed to reproduce those results.
Over 16K eligible women declined to participate in the study. Approximately 6K remained. That looks sus as hell, at least to me.
If your OB/GYN touches on induction at 39 weeks, you and your baby have been doing fine, and you're low risk, please ask your provider how the findings from the ARRIVE trial apply to your individual situation. You should know that to make a fully informed decision about your care.
It’s not easy for OB/GYNs. OB/GYN is one of the most litigious specialties in medicine. Doctors are losing their autonomy, that is huge. They follow the policies of the hospital they’re affiliated with often with little wiggle room. Health insurance companies (issuing denials) have limited their ability to give patient centered care. Upper management within hospitals and health insurance companies need to be at this table too. They help shape the rules doctors and nurses work within. That's the reality of an increasingly corporate healthcare system.
A rigid healthcare system that does not want doulas coming in and trying to change the rules. Hospitals will be quick to create their own doula programs just so their doulas follow the rules, too.
Every time I attend a birth as a doula, I know if legal proceedings were to take place, my nursing license would be gone. Even though I wasn’t working under the umbrella of nursing, the court wouldn’t care, nor would the hospital. I’ve learned to follow the rules and actually fully apply them. I’m here to teach everyone to do the same.
We just want providers to have the room to dig deep, know their client & their unique circumstances, rather than following a one-size-fits-all rule. That’s not anti-medicine, that’s what they are supposed to do. The evidence from the ARRIVE trial is best used as part of a shared discussion between you and your care team about your individual circumstances. That’s all. We don’t want a fight. We want to acknowledge that additional research is needed. Let’s work together to acknowledge that so our families can feel as safe as families that birth at a center or home. We need no gaps in care. If homebirth is a euphoric experience, then replicate that in the hospital so everything is even across the board.
And for the love of all that’s holy, stop the fighting about water birth. Hospitals have an entire jacuzzi in the room for decoration. Let’s cut this nonsense out. OB/GYNs, get ready to catch more babies from a squat position. Any position, doesn’t matter to me. I had a foot on my forehead during one birth. I’m in the picture smiling proudly.
chapter 4: I smell a set up
Three friends reached out to let me know there was a new season of The Last Airbender. I had no idea because I've been so busy. One of my friends asked which one of us was The Last Airbender. I told him it wasn't me. Don't even look over here. He said, 'Okay, Anj.' I took the deepest breath, ready to share why I wanted to nominate him. Then he reminded me my name meant Gift of God.
Wait, there’s more.
My ex-husband told me my light is even stronger than it was when he first met me at 17 years old. Well, now I'm really frustrated because he's rarely wrong. He has evolved into someone who has even me speechless. I would really love to do nothing more than find that pink, diamond-encrusted WWE championship belt I've dreamed of. I thought at this age I'd be eating bonbons, watching The Four Seasons on my lanai, in red bottoms. Now people are telling me I'm The Last Airbender. Another friend told me I should work for the government so I could make this fever dream an even deeper reality than it already is.
I just want pink roller skates. This damn HRT.
The butt and the legs don't match, y'all. I'm being pulled in so many different directions and even further away from birth. I'm so incredibly sad and happy. Maybe I need a couple of days, or maybe it'll be a sabbatical. I'm not sure. I just want peace as I navigate calling representatives again and waiting for the final decisions from those investigations I mentioned last month.
I wanted to stop by, say hello, and tell you I'm sorry. I'm sorry the work I've done wasn't enough to save future generations. I'm sorry to the nurses I've stood next to. I told you to have faith, and I feel so guilty about that. I still have faith. I know God has us but seeing you hurting is breaking my heart. I'm just tired of the public jorking by people abusing power. I'm tired of not sharing that the good people out there with open minds and open hearts are hurting because they have PTSD. I'm seeing worldwide PTSD and I can't unsee it.
chapter 5: My True Origin Story
The whole country is experiencing PTSD. We are currently being re-triggered, again. That is why people feel like getting out of bed is physically exhausting. There’s nothing wrong with you. Peep this.
I'll share the story of my early years. Before my brother was welcomed into the special needs community, I was. I sat in psychiatric centers because I didn't talk. I missed my developmental milestones even though my brother, who was 18 months younger, exceeded them.
I remember knowing I was different from other kids. Counting to 10 could go straight to hell in a motor-powered handbasket. The other kids happily engaged with learning. I needed to find out where my dad was. We were not the same. Their dads were there picking them up from school, while grown men were telling me, at four years old, that my mom needed to date because not having a daddy in the household wasn't safe.
Grown men sat and told me this while I was in the middle of reading Dick and Jane books. We all know they were rubbing their hands together, ready for the opportunity to talk to Mrs. Parker, my mother. The one that invented watering the lawn in some dangerously little shorts. In my mind I tagged all those men for deletion. The men that did date my mom, I investigated them myself. Five years old with forensic level skills. Those men hated to see me coming.
I forced myself to learn how to read so I could go deep diving in my mother's no-no drawer. This might sound familiar, but I didn't share my true origin story in completion. I sat going through the drawer to find out what happened to my dad when he served in Vietnam. I was in first grade. I did this while my mom wasn't looking. Once I heard her coming, I shoved everything back in the drawer and got to playing with my Barbies in the next room.
Until one day, my mom pulled me to the side and told me not to go into her no-no drawer. When she asked if I understood, I said no. I had every intention of heading back to that drawer. Let's be for real. Guys, she was kind enough to take all the files from the government, from the hospital my dad was admitted to, and from the hospital he was airlifted to in PA in a giant folder. I was shocked that I was even worthy enough to touch my dad's dog tags. She had those in the folder too.
My mother let me dig through stacks of files. Agent Orange. I spent weeks reading about Agent Orange while my teacher asked me to pay attention in class before she called my mom. Call my mom so I can go home and finish reading. I’m sorry, y’all, I mean no harm, but the priorities were frying me. Idk why adults don’t realize kids are smart. Too damn smart for their own good if you ask me, but that’s between us.
I just wanted to know my dad. Who was this man who saved me before he left this earth? My mother wanted to name me Rebecca. Whoa, don't you do it LOL. No Becky round here, please. They agreed on Anjanette. I love my name. Learning to write nine letters as a kid was tough, but I'm glad I insisted on learning it and not giving myself a nickname.
My mother also helped me pick out the encyclopedias I needed. She bought me a children's dictionary and a new Hello Kitty notepad. I was so scared that the no-no drawer would disappear the same way Wifey by Judy Blume disappeared. I sat through remedial reading classes just to get that book into my hands.
I was given the best gift I ever received in my life. I learned about the veterans who sacrificed their lives for us. My dad was one of them. Reading about the Vietnam War was painful. I have his flag, still folded, in my living room. I am the descendant of a Black man with a powerful name. I am also the descendant of a white-passing man, my granddaddy, whose birth certificate identifies him as Caucasian. The doctor who was there at my granddaddy's birth, a white man, saved our lives, and he doesn't even know it. The doctor told my granddaddy's mom, a beautiful brown-skinned Queen, that her firstborn son wouldn't make it in the world as a Black man. He risked himself to help my grandfather follow his dreams. My granddaddy was only a few minutes old, and everyone in the room was already scared for his future. I owe that doctor my life. That web of protection extends across our entire family, still.
Dr. Hugh Milton Dash, I love you down. My granddaddy became a doctor, one of the first Black men to graduate from his school of medicine. Our multigenerational home, 2694 Bedford Ave., Brooklyn, held 4 generations. You don't belong to us anymore, but my heart will never stop missing you. My parents, Shirley Jeannette Dash Silas and Percival Algernon Silas, I miss you dearly.
I grew up in a Victorian home, with other black and brown children. People thought we found our way from the projects or what they called the welfare buildings.
This isn't a sad blog. This is my life story. I learned how to read medical reports before I knew how to count on my fingers. I fought to be here, so it's my time to relax and get these hoodrats out of positions they shouldn't even be in.
I'm talking about the current administration. Count your days. Before you try to send the feds after me, I'm talking about good old-fashioned karma. It's about to sweep every block. It might cause a second pandemic. This one won't include anxiety or deeply seated fear. This will be the era of every hobby you didn't have the time to fulfill going to that job you barely like. I see you going to work. We pass each other each morning. You smile at me. I smile at you and proceed to run back home because hell hath opened, friend. I want you to be able to run home too. That’s what I teach new doulas. Creating a life that looks very different from what they were taught.
We have your back. Who is we? The same people who always have. The good people of the United States of America. The ones who will listen to fireworks tonight and try not to crash out. The world is so afraid of us that it does everything in its power to erase us. We're not erasable. We never were. Take time to learn the origin of your name, if you haven't already. Y'all are anointed and don't even realize it. Our traumas have been retriggered to the point that we are reactive. Stand down and grab your popcorn. It's finna be a movie.
I repeat. Sit down and do not interact with them.
I sound crazy, right? I ask myself if I am because people tell me I'm strange. They even spelled neurodivergence wrong. That's a population of superheroes that came into the world already sick of it. Their own bodies are at war with themselves living in it. That's not abnormal. That's a flex, they can’t tolerate the status quo. It's our job to help them see that & navigate through that. They don’t need to be secluded or removed from mainstream education. The teachers and administrators that can’t understand this do.
Before I go, I will share a story about how people will try to convince you that you don't matter. This is a bizarre type of disorder, where people act like they love you but try to take you down. Please hold my beer as I end this story with my experience. Thank you for sticking around and supporting me. If you haven't heard my name, it's okay. Lamaze International, the largest childbirth education organization to ever do it, does. 65 years of standing for this entire planet. I'm on their About page, that was a big, beautiful surprise. I know birthworkers in Zimbabwe.
They walked me through my first birth, an incredible life-changing experience. A high-risk birth, with unfortunate medical neglect and subsequent birth trauma. Lamaze has saved me too. I was accepted without hesitation into their Certification Council. A year after I started my business. One year of back-to-back rejection protection.
Birthing Advocacy Doula Trainings, BADT, is a damn movement. Please help these incredible human beings to the stage. They helped me find myself. A damn reflector in Human Design. Please take a bow. I want the world to know your name. I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve poured into me.
My good people, you can now officially hold my beer. I appreciate your patience.
the finale: The tea is hot. influencer birthworkers are not
Immediate disclaimer, there are wildly successful, genuine human beings out there with massive followings, as they deserve.
We are the blueprint. The blueprint—the boots on the ground people who actually do real work. All over media or like me, without any social media accounts at all.
I’m talking about the other side.
Anti-medicine doula, where? Please point them out. We don't do anti-medicine over here. We are the true definition of sovereign beings, and sovereign people do not run from anything, nor do we teach others to do that.
Shout out to you Free Birth Society, you’re going down. Stacey Warnecke should still be here. Please know her name. I’d share a link, but I don’t want them attached to my business in any way. Something about them reminds of the other perinatal training programs & businesses out there. 10,000 service offerings. No value. No legal liability if things go wrong. Driven by profit and recognition. Idk how they sleep at night.
The aesthetic branding, MLM-style doula training program I took told me my origin story was a stop sign to expectant families. They wouldn't want to work with me unless I was aesthetically pleasing. I'm not sure why I believed them. Our training assignments were us holding their branding while taking a selfie and then tagging them on socials. I looked at the instructor who recommended it like she was crazy. IKYLRNWTHIT?!
We’re used to seeing MLM style businesses selling products. Many of us watched our profession built on service (and deep passion) slowly become centered on recruitment (filling up the next cohort), branding, aesthetics, engagement (constant posting about themselves), and community monetization. This is way different.
I declined being pimped out as free marketing for their company. They didn't care for that, y'all. Birthworkers, I know you know exactly what I mean because we have to sit and watch this go down on social media. It was one of the many reasons I deleted my social media pages. I miss my people deeply. I couldn't do it anymore. One more 'Heyyyyyyyyy Mama' or 'Heyyyyyy Birthworker,' and I was going to crash out. I don't even mind hearing that as long as it's not attached to a performative Instagram voice. I cannot.
This doula training program influenced me so much that it took months to realize I had just experienced Scam Likely. They encouraged us to leave testimonials while class was actively in session. The ask came after everyone was crying because the other instructor had shared her PMADs experience with us. I was floored. The looks on the other doulas' faces confirmed that the cringey, fake feeling was actually real. We entered their sales funnel willingly. We left reviews so they would release our certifications. Their Google page is filled with thousands of forced reviews. To be proud of that is really strange. Maybe it’s just me. I felt like they rushed us to leave us a review before any of us realized what actually happened. This air-quotes training program rhymes with mess. I don't want to give them airtime on my website. Nothing but the best of intentions lives here (PM ME).
The website they built for me, the one I paid for, had SEO (search engine optimization) keywords that had my business ranking in Texas, where one of them practices. I live in Staten Island. I wasn't ranking in my city. These SEO keywords were embedded into my website. That's how I learned about SEO. Lord be a fence. The screenshots tell the true story.
Ultimately, I followed the wrong people. I ended my certification with them, and they haven't even noticed. There was no post-training support besides them answering posts from people asking about joining the next cohort. MLM-style businesses represent corporate energy. That is a major red flag in healthcare, especially in maternal healthcare spaces. The experts I work with, the ones who contributed to standard evidence-based practice, have been warning us that this is unethical. Do not join forces with that. It will take you down immediately. These people are turning their communities into the product. That is the sign of someone who lacks basic expertise because they are more concerned with profit.
It took me close to 1.5 years to rebuild my website in totality. I didn’t even trust Geek Squad.
That's why you see quick training programs. The three-day class with no post-class support is a major red flag. They're turning out cohorts way too quickly for it to be safe. They are currently tagged for deletion. We will take care of it.
You’re at the end. I don’t know what to say if you made it here. I’m currently contemplating selling my house. My mortgage has outgrown us once again. That hurts. They’re rats and football sized roaches in the train stations. The snow turns yellow before it even hits the ground. This is ghetto. I didn’t pay for ghetto and neither did you.
My children, my freaking children?! My oldest works for the largest healthcare insurance company in this country. My son, he built a computer from scratch. So quick that he ditched his old computer and was playing the new computer before I could finish teaching a childbirth education class.
My goodness. His homemade Sprite cured my nausea. My daughter wants to live in Italy. I won y’all. I really won. My children, our children are incredible human beings. Can you even believe that we did it? Got through hell and back, ready to do it again. The phoenix rises from its ashes thousands of times. Phew. The re-birth is real this round. Get ready to level up.
Pardon me, Beyonce just dropped a song that points to why I was a straight A science student. I’m not sure what I’ve done to her LOL. I love us, for real. Thank you for being here.
With love and a Harley Quinn T-shirt,
Anjanette Rebecca Dash Silas