The fears my parents both had when I was born carried through when I was pregnant with my own daughter.
I couldn’t help but feel a sense of fear and apprehension. The stories I had heard, my own lived experiences and the knowledge of historical trauma deeply rooted in my being made the hospital experience daunting.
Hospitals, which are meant to be places of safety and healing, have unfortunately been mired in the mistreatment and removal of First Nations children. The fear of having my child taken away without consent, and losing the precious bond between us, loomed over me. Even as a lawyer with a social work qualification, I remained terrified of this.
This fear is not unfounded. It is grounded in the painful truth of the mistreatment and injustices faced by First Nations women within the healthcare system. The hospitals that should have been spaces of trust and support have become sites of pain, loss and the continuation of intergenerational trauma.
With all of this, I knew I had to be prepared. First, I immersed myself in understanding my rights as a patient and a mother. Researching hospital policies and protocols allowed me to advocate for myself and my desires during the birthing process. I sought out information to ensure my voice would be heard and respected. I also educated my partner and shared that if anything was to happen to me, to not leave the baby.
Equally important was building a support system. I surrounded myself with individuals who understood my concerns and could stand by my side in the hospital setting. Having a trusted family member, which I did, provided me with the extra comfort I needed. Their presence provided emotional support, helped with communication and ensured that my wishes were honoured.
Acknowledging and addressing my fear was a very real act of empowerment. I wonder if non-Indigenous people or people going through the private system face these fears. I highly doubt it. By taking proactive steps, engaging in open communication and embracing alternative birthing options, I was able to navigate the hospital experience with resilience.
As a First Nations mother, I am determined to protect the bond I share with my daughter, Waitui, and provide her with a nurturing and empowering environment, despite the historical and ongoing trauma that we still see today.
A mother deserves love, support and nourishment. She embodies love itself. When I first held my daughter in my arms, I held on to her tightly, almost instinctively. In that moment, I couldn’t help but wonder if this tight grip was driven by a genuine fear or subconscious concern about potential risks and who or what could take her away from me. However, as I gazed into my child’s eyes, I saw a love that reached depths I had never known before. As I reflect deeply on that moment, my heart breaks, knowing that too many mothers experience a similar sense of love, only to have their reality marred by the presence of child protection workers, police and other individuals in positions of power who can remove their children. Being a survivor of the family policing system, I was acutely aware of the serious risk of removal. Because instead of the state providing the support and love to my family, I was stolen in the middle of the night by police officers and a “case worker”, aged 10 and a half.
I won’t deny I had genuine fears. A few months after giving birth to Waitui, I actually stopped going to therapy. Looking back, I now realise that my decision was fuelled by the fear of my daughter being reported. I immediately responded with surveillance trauma, which is a common fear we carry as survivors due to our history of being watched and the particular circumstances of trauma as children. It wasn’t that there was anything to report about me, but this fear had deeply rooted itself within me, causing extreme anxiety during therapy sessions.
Perhaps my therapist sensed some of this fear as well, but I was caught up in overthinking everything. I now understand that my apprehension stemmed from the profound awareness of how it feels to be forcibly separated from family and the risk of interacting with those in a position to report. I never wanted Waitui to experience that pain, and I thought about my therapist doing this. This only speaks to the level of anxiety I carried, and upon reflection, I wish I had been open with my therapist about it. However, a good sign is that I have clocked and named it – if you name it or give yourself a little compassion as to where it might be coming from, you begin the healing.
You see, as your child grows, they become a reflection of your own experiences of trauma and pain. And in that reflection you begin to see clearly what is and what should not be. It becomes apparent how adults, who should be doing the right thing, protecting and taking on the responsibilities of adulthood, can fail to do so. You start to seriously wonder how and why certain things could’ve been done to you as your child grows.
My duty, however, as a mother and professional in this area of work, is to do the work on myself and address these issues.
Despite the weight of trauma and the injustices our women have to face, First Nations mothers are determined to redefine parenthood with strength, love and power. We draw upon the resilience of our ancestors, grounding ourselves in the wisdom of our cultural teachings. Healing becomes an act of resistance as we strive to break the cycles of intergenerational trauma and carve out a brighter future for our children. As we continue to grow through this, reclaim our space and exist and survive, we change the cycle by passing down cultural practices and instilling a sense of identity and belonging that strengthens the bond between children and parents, the land and us.
Despite the hardships and injustices, as First Nations mothers we are determined to raise our children with love and fortitude. The wounds of child removal and the agony of hospitals as removal institutions cannot obscure the bond between mothers and our children. Through cultural revitalisation, community support and acts of resistance, First Nations mothers continue to shape a future where their children can grow with strength, love and a profound connection to their heritage with a living, being and doing of sovereignty.
• This is an edited extract from Long Yarn Short by Vanessa Turnbull-Roberts, out 1 October through University of Queensland Press (A$34.99)
