My husband, Phil, rolled his eyes whenever the word ‘lotus flower’ was spoken. He had wanted to go to the ‘normal’ pre-birth classes, but I insisted we go to a more holistic class that would teach us how to give birth naturally and joyfully. Who wouldn’t want to give birth calmly, even orgasmically?

My pen was poised, capturing every piece of information from our instructor; her untamed mane of curls, the earth-toned dress draped around her and the scent of incense that lingered in the air was surely a sign of someone who had birthed like this before. These sacred notes would become the basis for my ‘birth plan’, but I summed it up for my obstetrician in one line: I want to give birth naturally, and naturally only.

My gaze momentarily drifted from the instructor to her yard, which peeked behind her in an arched window. It was the kind of place where spinach grew wildly and barefoot children chased chickens, a refuge from the nine-to-five. My mind wandered to the alternative life I, too, might have led had I not failed my UN job interview. Instead of finding my calling in Nairobi, here I was, in New Zealand, learning the subtle art of cervix-opening. Who was I, really? An ambitious do-gooder marketer? A soon-to-be mother? Could I possibly be both? For years, I’d thrown myself into non-profits, convinced that my purpose was intricately intertwined with my career. Yet, as my belly swelled with anticipation, I grappled with the notion that perhaps my purpose lay in the boundless love I already felt for my unborn child.

My focus returned to the room and the other couples sitting around us on purple cushions. Everyone looked like you’d expect them to look in a mindfulness-based birthing class. And while I tried my best to look the part, I knew we were the odd ones out – the straighty one-eighties. My life felt so far removed from what I imagined the lives of my fellow classmates to be; I was a marketer living in the burbs with my newly wedded husband in our newly purchased house.

I’d love to be a hippie, my mind wandered again. I loved nature, travelling and music. I read spirituality books. But they were hobbies, not a way of life. I had deliberately chosen the well-trodden path of approved societal expectations – school, university, career, marriage and now a baby. Check, check, check, check, check. I felt bound to doing things the ‘right’ way. That’s why my pen was poised. That’s why I was the annoying one asking all the questions. I now wanted to birth ‘right’. The other women didn’t seem to carry this same doubt, at least not on the surface. They absorbed the instructor’s words with quiet confidence, nodding softly, as if they had always known their bodies were made for this.

Their ease felt like a kind of freedom my body and mind had yet to experience. Yes, freedom, that was what I yearned for most.

‘Just like a flower bud opens when it’s ready, so will your cervix. Your body is designed to give birth naturally. Trust in its wisdom. Visualise your cervix opening,’ the instructor said.

The slight rise in the corner of Phil’s mouth told me he was savouring this moment, storing it as ammunition, as fuel to his rational fire. He didn’t want us to come here and learn about cervix openings. Why was it necessary, he argued, when we were paying an obstetrician good money? His playful look of self-satisfaction suggested that this argument was one he would win. And he loved to win.

Phil’s scientific worldview often conflicted with my inner want-to-be hippie. In his mind, a good doctor would deliver our firstborn safely. In my mind – or was it my heart, I could never tell which was what – I wanted my body to birth naturally, effortlessly. My cervix would open like a lotus flower, goddamn it. Yet, equally, a part of me was relieved to have the best obstetrician in town on our team. You know, just in case.

As we said goodbye to our instructor and classmates, Phil grabbed my hand, signalling he wanted to make a swift exit. From the safety of our car, Phil let loose. ‘Your cervix will open naturally, just like an apple falls from the tree when it’s ready to be eaten. Jesus Christ,’ he laughed.

‘I know, I know. It was a bit full-on, but I really liked it. It’s definitely how I want to birth. But how many times do you reckon she said lotus?’ I said, glancing at him sideways.

‘I lost count. And, baby, don’t put so much pressure on yourself about the birth. It will be what it will be. We have a good obstetrician. That’s what matters most,’ he added.

I shifted in my seat, thinking about how I could respond. I, too, liked to win. ‘Well, I think we have the best of both worlds,’ I proclaimed. ‘We have a belief in my body and medical support if we need it.’

I stared at the road ahead with a flutter in my belly, hoping, wishing and willing my body to do its job. I didn’t want a caesarean birth. I had read that a natural birth provides the baby with the best start in life. That’s what I wanted. And I had no reason to believe that a natural birth wasn’t next on the checklist.

Fast track a few weeks and a few more baby books to thirty-five weeks’ gestation. It was Christmas Day when life started to more forcibly chart its own course. I’ve heard people refer to these moments as wake-up calls but I didn’t know what I was waking up from. I would never have called myself asleep or unconscious at the time. In fact, I would have stubbornly argued against it. I attended that mindfulness-based birthing class, after all; I recycled, practised yoga, read my star sign; and I cared, really cared about the world, which drew me to all manner of non-profits for work. But I was severed from my soul. With the great power of hindsight, I can see that now.

This Christmas Day curveball was the first of a series of shake-ups that would eventually, finally, see me looking, not at my career (or astrology sign), but within my own heart for a sense of completeness. It would take years. My mind really didn’t want to let go. Some people, such as spiritual teacher Eckhart Tolle, experience very clear moments of awakening, a moment in time when the grip of the mind unbinds itself forevermore. My journey of self-discovery didn’t go quite like that. It was more of a street fight between my heart and head. Perhaps that is how it is for people like me with a strong-willed mind – reclaiming our hearts and souls requires time and tenacity and grace. That’s what it took for me.

__________________

When I was a child, we used to camp near glistening Rainbow Beach in northern New South Wales for our annual family holiday.

Mum and Dad loaded our trailer with camping equipment, bikes and boogie boards, ready for the four-hour drive north.

The packing and setting up was my least favourite part of the holiday. If I didn’t help, I would be in trouble. But if I helped too much, I would be in the way. I never knew how to approach it, but I always did what I was told and hoped it would be enough.

Once our tent was pitched and bags unloaded, Mum and Dad relaxed, my sister and I relaxed, and our holiday began. We’d walk the sandy, shrub-lined path to the beach. Dad set up the beach umbrella. Mum lathered us with sunscreen.

‘Come back, Lara. I haven’t done the back of your legs,’ Mum would call as I ran to the water. I always ran back.

‘Grab the board, mate, let’s go surfing,’ Dad said after Mum had rubbed the back of my nine-year-old freckled legs with thick, white sunscreen. I grabbed the board from the sand and headed for the ocean.

With the board strapped to my wrist, I ran into the salty coolness with might and exuberance. I waded into the lapping waves and dived under as soon as it was deep enough. The moment my face submerged my mind entered an almost dream-like state. Under the water, my mind, body and spirit reunited, and peace momentarily entered my pores. Although I could never have articulated it at the time, something within me knew that nature, the ocean, the bush, was a great source of comfort. For the decades that followed, I was, and am, magnetically drawn to the sea, the hills, the trees to help me remember the peace within. I didn’t consciously realise that until much later, though.

‘Oh, the water is so nice,’ I said to Dad after breaking through the surface and gasping for air with a grin from ear to ear.

‘It sure is. But keep moving. The waves are breaking a bit further out.’

Dad directed me to the point where the undulating water movement transformed into a wave – the break. I hopped onto my board, turned to face the shore and saw Mum watching us from underneath our beach umbrella. Sitting on our blue beach towel with her knees bent, Mum waved and smiled. I waved back. My younger sister did cartwheels on the yellow sand.

‘You ready, mate?’ Dad said with a twinkle in his eye.

‘Yes,’ I replied.

At the point just before the tip of the wave curled over, Dad gave my board an almighty push.

‘Good girl,’ he yelled cheerfully as I raced forward.

Good girl. Those two words shaped me. I heard them so often they etched themselves into my very being. They weren’t just praise; they were a prescription for how to live. I was good. I was a pleaser. Driven, yes, but by the fear of not letting anyone down.

I felt there were only two kinds of kids: good or naughty. I chose good. It felt safer. Being good meant being loved. And I wanted to be loved more than anything.

I pleased everyone: my parents, teachers, tennis coach, and later, my bosses, colleagues, even my husband. My life was a showcase of approval – school awards, tennis trophies and work promotions.

Each accolade was proof I was good, though I wasn’t sure to whom I was proving it. Myself? The world?

Yet, I played the part. I was good. I was loved. But under the surface, I often felt silenced and restless.

There was this question that refused to go away: Am I alone enough?