Once a Midwife ..

Once a Midwife, Always a Midwife

By Someone Who Has Held the Hands of Thousands

There is a knowing in our bones.

It begins quietly, often before we’ve ever caught a baby, before we’ve even spoken the word “midwife” aloud with full conviction. It stirs in the soul the first time we see life take its first breath, the first time we see strength written on the face of a laboring woman.

To choose midwifery is to answer a sacred calling. It is not simply a job. It is not a career path one clocks in and out of. It’s not just what we do; it’s who we are down to our very essence.

Because once a midwife, always a midwife.

We are the keepers of time, the watchers of the veil between life and death. We sit vigil while the world sleeps, our hearts in sync with the rhythm of contraction and rest. We listen to the whispers of women’s fears and the roar of their power as they bring forth life. We measure time not in hours or minutes, but in centimeters and heart tones and sacred silence.

We give of ourselves fully.

Missed holidays, missed birthdays, missed first steps and last breaths of our own loved ones. We have given these moments up willingly to be by a woman’s side. We’ve slept on floors, eaten from vending machines, stood in showers fully clothed trying to comfort the birthing mother, carried the weight of life and loss in our arms. We have lost sleep, lost relationships, lost pieces of ourselves… and yet we never stopped showing up to witness those beautiful moments of raw courage and strength when a woman brings her baby Earthside; And she becomes a mother.

Why?

Because midwifery lives in the marrow of our bones, deep within our DNA.

It is there in the way we instinctively reach out to soothe a baby’s cry at the grocery store. It is there in the way we fold a blanket, the way we pay attention to the pain behind a woman’s eyes, the way we say, “I believe you.” It’s there in the stories we carry—not clinical charts or textbooks, but the soft, powerful memories of the women we selflessly served.

We remember them.

The mother who labored through the night, determined to birth her baby with courage and faith. The teenage woman who sobbed in our arms, unsure of how she would do it, yet she did it anyway. The grandmother who whispered prayers in the corner as her daughter became a mother.

The birth that slipped into stillness, and we wept alongside the family, holding space for their grief.

We don’t forget.

Because we become part of their story, and they become part of ours.

Often we give more of ourselves to these women,  to these families, than we do to our own. Not because we love our families less, but because the call of midwifery is relentless. It demands our all. And we give it, joyfully.

We love fiercely. We serve deeply. We show up—time after time after time.

And then, one day, the chapter comes to an end.

The pager is silenced. The birth bags are stored. Maybe it’s retirement, maybe it’s burnout, or maybe it’s the weight of trauma too heavy to carry any longer. 

In that silence, a fear arises:

Who am I, if I am no longer catching babies?

But hear this: you are still a midwife.

Even if your hands no longer guide heads into the world,

Even if your voice no longer chants, "You are so strong. You can do this!"

Even if the calendar is no longer filled with due dates, Even if you hang up your fetoscope for the last time…

You are still a midwife.

Because you became a midwife the first time you poured love into someone else's labor. The first time you let your own needs fall away in service of another's transformation. The first time you saw a woman, truly saw her and held sacred space for her to be reborn as a mother.

You are midwifery embodied. You walk through the world with the tenderness, strength, and intuition that only midwives know. You understand the poetry of the body. You have seen the power of women and you not only believe in it, but it is woven like a beautiful tapestry into  your whole being.

No one can take that from you.

Not time.

Not retirement.

Not doubters.

Not even death.

Because midwifery leaves fingerprints on the soul.

And one day, when your time here draws to a close, and the stories of your life are whispered through tears of grief, people will not speak of your credentials, your titles, or your degrees. They will speak of your calm and nurturing presence.

They will remember the hands that cradled life.

The words that soothed fear.

The strength that never wavered.

The heart that gave and gave and gave.

They will say she was a midwife.

Not just in her work, but in her essence.

Not just in the clinic, but in every moment she lived.

So if you're wondering who you are now that you're not attending births anymore… know this:

You are still holding space.

Still mothering mothers and baby midwives.

Still weaving light into dark places.

Still listening to the cries no one else hears.

Still witnessing transformation, but differently now.

Once a midwife, always a midwife.

And to every midwife who has served tirelessly; known and unknown, seen and unseen, celebrated or quietly retired—this is your song.

You matter.

You changed lives.

You became family to thousands.

You deserve to be honored.

You deserve to rest.

You deserve to still carry the title, even if your hands are no longer catching babies.

Because your heart always will.

- Darlene Curtis