Reflections from a Doula Who’s Not Here to Sell Herself

Hi, I’m a doula. That means I show up for people during one of the most vulnerable, transformative, holy-mess-meets-holy-moment chapters of their lives. And before we go any further, I need to tell you something upfront: I’m not here to sell you anything.

Seriously. If you’re looking for a polished pitch, a laminated list of my services, or a persuasive argument about why I’m the best doula in town, I might not be your person. And I’m okay with that. In fact, I hope you are too.

This work, to me, is about relationships. It’s not a gig or a service package with bronze, silver, and gold tiers. It’s not a performance. It’s presence. It’s being there when things are raw and real and sometimes really weird (birth is humbling, let’s be honest). It’s listening without fixing. Holding space without crowding it. Breathing alongside you without telling you how to breathe “correctly.”

When we meet, I want us to see each other. I want to know what scares you about birth—or about parenting, or about being seen. I want to know what kind of support makes your shoulders drop and your nervous system whisper, okay… this feels safe. And I want you to feel, genuinely, that you can ask me anything. Even if that thing is, “What if I don’t actually want a doula?” (Yes, you can say that. I will not combust.)

I don’t do interviews. Or, at least, not the kind that feel like job applications. We’re not here to conduct a professional vetting exercise. We’re here to connect. Choosing a doula isn’t about finding the most qualified candidate on paper—it’s about finding someone whose presence doesn’t require effort. Whose energy feels like it belongs in your birth room or your postpartum cocoon. Someone you could cry in front of, swear in front of, even go silent with… and still feel held.

I’ve had families call me with a whole spreadsheet of questions—and we never made it past the first few because we ended up talking about grief, or joy, or their great aunt who gave birth on a train. That’s what matters: not my exact rebozo technique (though yes, I do know how to use one), but whether we feel like we can be real together. If we can giggle when your toddler interrupts us wearing only a cape and a jelly moustache, or sit quietly when words aren’t needed.

Let's get comfy together.

Some of my approach comes from my own spiritual practice. I’ve spent time learning how to simply sit with discomfort as an intrinsic part of the human experience, without rushing to change it or make it prettier. Birth offers so many parallels: intensity, uncertainty, surrender, impermanence. As a doula, I bring that awareness with me—not as a doctrine, but as a way of being. I’m not here to force calm, but to embody it when it’s useful. I don’t chase control—I welcome what is. Sometimes that means being the steady hand during contractions. Sometimes it’s knowing when to back off and give you space. And sometimes it’s passing you a snack and saying, “You’re doing enough,” even when you’re convinced you aren’t.

Look, I get it. The internet makes everything feel transactional. Swipe here, compare there, read reviews, rank providers. But this isn’t shopping for a toaster. This is finding the human who’s going to witness you in all your birthing (or unraveling, or rebuilding) glory. That’s sacred. That deserves something more than a checklist.

So if you’re looking for a doula who won’t try to “close the deal” or overpromise, but instead wants to sit with you, see you, know you—hello. I’m right here. Let’s talk. Not about packages, but about people. Not about guarantees, but about gut feelings. Not about perfection, but about presence.

And if, after we talk, you realize I’m not your person? That’s okay, too. The most important thing is that you find someone you click with, who makes your body say yes. That’s what this whole thing is about.

And hey—if we both show up, and your dog likes me? I’ll take that as a sign we’re on the right track.