1) From Silence to Solace

 Trigger warning: domestic violence and pregnancy loss

 

I want to start with a gentle warning. What I’m going to write about isn’t easy. It includes domestic violence and the loss of a baby. Please take care of yourself if you decide to read on.

No one really talks about what it’s like to relive trauma while training to be a midwife. People will say, “Oh, it’s a tough course,” or “You’ll see things that will be hard to cope with,” but nothing can prepare you for when your own past collides with what you’re learning and experiencing. It’s one thing to study hard, to keep up with the placements, to practice the skills, it’s another thing completely to realise that the very things you’re preparing to support others through are things you’ve lived through yourself.

I’ve always known I wanted to be a midwife. I couldn’t even tell you the exact moment that decision came into my head, it feels like it’s just always been part of me. Maybe it came after having my own children, maybe it was always there in the background. Either way, it’s been sitting inside me for years, this certainty that midwifery is what I’m meant to do. But if I’m honest, this journey is already harder than I ever imagined it would be.

The other day something happened that was unexpected and out of my control. I was out with my children in a restaurant, a normal day, a family meal. And then suddenly I saw him. The man who used to abuse me. The man who beat me, broke me down, and left scars on me that you can’t see from the outside. I wasn’t prepared for it. I don’t think you ever can be. My whole body just froze. In that moment, it was like all those years collapsed in on themselves and I was right back there, the fear, the shame, the violence, the moments I thought I’d buried so deep they’d never surface again. But they did.

It all came flooding back: the nights of being hit and humiliated, the mornings of trying to put myself together and pretend I was fine. And then, one of the hardest memories of all, the day I drove myself to hospital, two days after one of his attacks, and found out that the baby I was carrying didn’t have a heartbeat anymore. I remember walking into that hospital alone. Sitting there in the waiting room surrounded by people who had no idea what was happening to me. When they told me, I cried, but it wasn’t the kind of grief you might expect. It was relief. Pure, unshakable relief that I didn’t have to bring his baby into the world.

At the time, that relief carried me through. I clung to it because it was the only thing that made sense. But now, years later, that feeling has changed. The grief has shifted. It’s not as simple as relief anymore. There’s sadness now too, sadness for what could have been, sadness for the child that never got to grow. It’s complicated. Grief usually is.

And while I’m so grateful that he’s gone from my life completely, no contact, no ties, nothing at all, I can’t erase the imprint that trauma leaves. It sneaks up on you in ways you don’t expect. Sitting in that restaurant, I wasn’t just a mum with my kids having lunch. I was suddenly 15 years younger, bruised and broken, crying in a hospital room by myself. That’s what trauma does.

And now here I am, in my second year of midwifery training. I’ve had placements, I’ve been alongside women and families during pregnancy and birth, and I’m slowly learning what it means to step into this role. But I haven’t yet been with a family facing heartbreak. That part still feels like it’s waiting for me just around the corner. And honestly, it scares me.

I already know how much my own past still lingers, how easily it can be stirred up by something unexpected. So I can’t help but wonder how I’ll cope when I am faced with loss, when I’m the one standing there expected to offer support while inside I might be breaking open myself. That’s one of my biggest fears, that I’ll crumble, that I’ll be overwhelmed by my own memories when I’m meant to be strong for someone else.

What I do know is that I’m going to need support. I’m hoping to lean on my PMAs and my personal tutor. I want to be open with them, not to share every detail, but enough so they understand why certain situations might be especially hard for me. Because pretending it’s not an issue doesn’t work. I’ve done that before, and it only eats away at you inside.

I know there will be days I’ll doubt myself. Days I’ll think, “I can’t do this.” And I know there will probably be times I’ll cry after placement, or sit in my car before going in and take a deep breath because I’m not sure I can face it. But I also know that talking about it now, writing this out, admitting my fears, is part of how I’ll cope. Writing has always been my solace. It’s where I make sense of the things I can’t always say out loud. It feels healing to put my experiences into words, to take something painful and shape it into something that might reach someone else who needs to hear it.

Here’s what I want to say to anyone else who might read this and feel that knot in their stomach because it sounds a little too familiar: carrying trauma into training doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human. It makes you someone who understands the depth of pain and loss in a way no textbook can teach. That doesn’t mean it’s easy, but it does mean you’re not alone.

We need to talk about this more. We need to stop pretending that midwifery students, nurses, doctors, anyone in healthcare, can leave their own pasts at the door. We carry them with us. And sometimes, those pasts come rushing back. That doesn’t mean we can’t do this. It just means we have to find ways to support each other through it.

This isn’t a story of defeat. It’s not me saying I can’t do this. It’s me saying it’s hard, it’s scary, and it’s real. It’s me being honest about the fact that sometimes I still feel like that broken girl, but I’m also this woman now, training to become the midwife I always dreamed I would be. And maybe, just maybe, my past will one day help me sit beside another woman in her darkest moment and let her know she isn’t alone either.

If you’re still reading this, and any of this resonates with you, I want you to know something. You are not weak for struggling. You are not broken beyond repair. And you are not alone.

National Domestic Abuse Helpline (Refuge / Women’s Aid)
0808 2000 247 (24 hours, free, confidential)
Website: https://www.nationaldahelpline.org.uk

Victim Support (Domestic Abuse Supportline)
0808 16 89 111 (24/7, free)
Website: https://www.victimsupport.org.uk/crime-info/types-crime/domestic-abuse

Women’s Aid
Online chat & support available
Website: https://www.womensaid.org.uk/information-support

Solace Women’s Aid (London)
0808 802 5565
Website: https://www.solacewomensaid.org