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In Southern Appalachia, the Bible has long been more than just a book of faith—it has served as a book of spells, a source of wisdom, and a keeper of tradition. For generations, the people of these mountains have woven scripture into their daily lives, blending Christian beliefs with folk magic, herbalism, and deep-rooted superstitions passed down from their ancestors.
Birth, in particular, was seen as a sacred and communal event, where faith and folklore intersected in powerful ways. Midwives, often referred to as "granny-women," played a central role in childbirth, using prayers, charms, and herbs to ensure a safe delivery. These midwives viewed their work as a divine calling, incorporating both biblical scripture and old-world remedies into their practice. Many believed that the words of the Bible held power, capable of influencing outcomes when spoken with intention. Psalm 112, for example, was frequently recited as a good luck charm, a protection spell of sorts for the mother and child: Praise the Lord Blessed are those who fear the Lord, who find great delight in his commands. Their children will be mighty in the land; the generation of the upright will be blessed. This psalm, like many other scriptures, was thought to bring favor, prosperity, and protection when spoken aloud or written down and placed near a newborn. The blending of Christianity and folk magic in Appalachia was influenced by multiple cultural traditions. Indigenous herbal knowledge, German and Celtic charms, and African spiritual practices all contributed to what some now call "Appalachian Christianity" or "Christian witchcraft." Despite the stigma surrounding folk magic, many Appalachian families saw their traditions not as witchcraft, but as a continuation of their faith; praying over their sick, using herbs for healing, and calling on biblical verses for protection. Superstitions and omens were also a major part of Appalachian belief systems. A black cat crossing one’s path could steal their good luck, while a black cat choosing to stay in their home signified prosperity. Ringing in the ears meant someone was speaking of you, while an itchy palm could signal financial fortune, or debt, depending on which hand tingled. These beliefs, alongside biblical spells and charms, formed the foundation of everyday life in the mountains. Midwives and healers often placed symbolic objects under birthing beds to ward off evil or ease labor pains. A knife might be placed beneath the mattress to "cut" the pain of labor, while red thread or string was tied around a newborn’s wrist to protect against harm. These customs, while seemingly small, represented the deeply spiritual nature of Appalachian birth practices. Even today, many Appalachian families hold onto these traditions, passing them down through generations. Some have reclaimed the term "Christian witch," embracing their heritage of prayer, spellwork, and folk healing through a biblical lens. Others simply continue the practices of their ancestors, blending faith and folklore in a way that feels true to them. In the end, the Bible remains more than a religious text in Appalachia. It is a book of power, a guide for living and, for many, a spellbook whose words shape the world. Whether called upon for protection, healing, or good fortune, the scriptures remain deeply woven into the fabric of Appalachian life, just as they have for generations. Carrying Grief and Pain2/28/2025 I am where I am, but I do not always like where I am. Sometimes I do not want to be here, but I accept that here is where I am
That thought lingers in my mind, weaving itself into the fabric of my daily existence. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the lessons, the growth, or even the love that life has given me...I do. But as I sit with my memories, I recognize that I carry everything forward: the beautiful moments and the painful ones, the triumphs and the grief, the love and the loss. There is no leaving things behind, only learning how to hold them. I think back to the moments of deep sorrow, the nights I spent crying on my floor, pleading with God to send some kind of peace. Those memories still live inside me, not as open wounds but as faint echoes of who I was in those moments. It is easy to say I carry them now because I can see where I’ve come, but that doesn’t mean I don’t struggle. I struggle with the weight of my lowest points and how they rippled into the lives of those around me. The times I lashed out at a significant other, speaking words I cannot take back. The moments I let anger fuel my interactions with an ex, letting pain drive my actions instead of healing or the love I truly still felt for that person. The nights my parents saw me lose all will to live, their fear piercing through the darkness I had succumbed to. These memories don’t just belong to me; they belong to the people who were hurt by my hurt. And yet, I am still here. The past does not define me, but it shapes me. I do not get to pick and choose which parts of my life I carry forward—I carry it all. The laughter and the tears, the joy and the heartbreak, the prayers and the silence. I am learning that carrying my past is not a punishment; it is an opportunity. An opportunity to move forward with intention, to heal, to make amends where I can, and to forgive myself where I cannot. The fear my parents felt pushed me to find my joy and happiness again. The anger I acted on led me to find new ways to cope with heavy emotions. Each experience taught me something. I don’t know exactly where I’m going, but I know I will arrive with everything I have lived through. And maybe that is enough. In the heart of Appalachia, the tradition of midwifery has long been a cornerstone of maternal care. Midwives, often known as "granny women," have provided essential birth support for generations, blending folk medicine, spiritual traditions, and practical knowledge passed down through the ages. However, despite their invaluable role, Appalachian midwives have faced significant challenges—legal barriers, systemic oppression, and the encroachment of medical institutions that sought to displace them.
Midwifery in Appalachia has deep roots in both necessity and tradition. Before hospitals became widely accessible, midwives were the primary caregivers for birthing women, relying on herbal remedies and community wisdom to ensure safe deliveries. These midwives did more than deliver babies; they provided emotional support, postpartum care, and guidance on newborn care, embodying a holistic approach that modern medicine is only beginning to reclaim. The early 20th century brought a shift in how childbirth was perceived and managed. As hospitals and obstetricians gained prominence, midwifery was increasingly marginalized. The introduction of strict licensing laws made it difficult for traditional midwives to continue their work, forcing many out of practice. While these regulations were often framed as efforts to improve maternal health, they disproportionately impacted rural and Black midwives, effectively erasing a rich and effective tradition from mainstream healthcare. One of the most striking examples of midwifery’s suppression in Appalachia was the exclusion of Black midwives from formalized healthcare systems. Despite their extensive experience and trusted role within their communities, these midwives were denied opportunities for certification and employment in emerging medical institutions. The legacy of this exclusion persists today, as Black maternal health disparities remain alarmingly high, highlighting the ongoing need for culturally competent and community-based care. Mary Breckinridge, founder of the Frontier Nursing Service in 1925, is often credited with revolutionizing maternal healthcare in rural Kentucky. Her work undeniably improved access to trained midwives, but it also reinforced racial barriers, as she refused to hire Black midwives. This complex legacy is a reminder that while progress was made, it often came at the expense of marginalized communities who had long provided quality care outside institutional settings. Despite past setbacks, midwifery is experiencing a resurgence in Appalachia. Families seeking personalized, low-intervention births are turning back to midwives, recognizing the benefits of continuity of care, reduced medical interventions, and cultural sensitivity. However, challenges remain. Many states still impose restrictive laws on midwifery practice, and access to midwifery care is often limited by insurance policies and systemic biases favoring hospital births. Organizations and advocates are working tirelessly to address these issues, pushing for policy changes that expand midwifery access and integrate traditional practices into modern healthcare frameworks. Efforts to preserve Appalachian midwifery traditions, including oral history projects and midwife-led training programs, are ensuring that this vital knowledge is not lost. Midwifery is more than a healthcare practice—it is a testament to community resilience and self-determination. In regions where hospitals are distant and healthcare resources are scarce, midwives provide a lifeline, offering safe, compassionate, and culturally relevant care. The return to midwifery is not a step backward; it is a reclamation of wisdom that has sustained generations. As we move forward, it is crucial to honor and support midwives in their fight for recognition and accessibility. Whether through policy advocacy, education, or direct support, uplifting midwifery means investing in healthier families and stronger communities. The hollers of Appalachia still echo with the stories of the women who birthed generations in their homes, guided by the steady hands and unwavering dedication of midwives. It is time their contributions are fully acknowledged and their practices embraced as a vital part of maternal healthcare. The story of Appalachian midwifery is one of endurance, wisdom, and advocacy. By recognizing its history, addressing systemic challenges, and supporting midwives in their essential work, we can create a future where every mother has access to respectful, skilled, and compassionate care—no matter where she lives. As the mountains stand steadfast, so too does the legacy of midwifery in Appalachia—rooted in tradition, strengthened by struggle, and flourishing once again. The Power of Intentionality: Moving from the Universe to God in My Spiritual and Religious Practices2/23/2025 Not much has changed about my beliefs as I’ve transitioned from a more spiritual perspective to embracing religion. At the core, I still hold onto the idea that the universe is orchestrating things in a divine way, shaping my life in ways I could never imagine or predict. The flow of events, the connections, the opportunities that come my way, I believe it all unfolds for a greater purpose that I can’t fully comprehend.
But what’s shifted for me is the way I call on and interact with that divine force. In my spiritual practice, I used to refer to this guiding energy simply as "the universe." It was a broad, encompassing term that felt expansive and open. There was comfort in the simplicity of this idea, in the understanding that everything was flowing in my direction, even if I couldn’t always see the bigger picture. However, as I’ve moved towards a more religious understanding, I’ve found that the shift from referring to this divine force as "the universe" to calling it "God" has had a powerful impact on the way I engage in my spiritual practices, particularly in prayer. When I pray now, it feels like I’m speaking directly to something specific. Instead of just requesting manifestations from the universe, I’m speaking to a personal, intentional presence that I believe is actively working in my life. This change is more than just a shift in terminology; it’s a shift in perspective. The words we use carry immense weight, and by switching from "universe" to "God," there’s a new sense of clarity and specificity in my requests. Manifestation, at its core, has always required one to be specific and to put effort into making something happen — none of it is passive. It's about directing your energy toward a clear goal and putting in the work to bring it to fruition. The same is true for prayer. It's not a magic lamp we send requests to. Prayer requires intention and clarity, just as manifestation does. What makes prayer different is that it also creates space to express gratitude, share news (good or bad), and connect with a higher power in a more personal way. It’s a dialogue, not just a request. Prayer gives room for reflection, for thanksgiving, and for sharing everything that’s on our hearts. Manifestation is a way of calling things into being, but prayer is a more intimate conversation where we invite God into the entirety of our lives, not just our desires. In both my work and personal life, I strive to remain open-minded and accepting of all people. I believe in embracing diversity and avoiding judgment. I am forgiving, but I also know the importance of setting clear, healthy boundaries. I see these values as deeply connected to both my religious and spiritual beliefs. Perhaps the reason I initially used the term "universe" to describe the guiding energy I felt was because it seemed to embody an inclusive, non-judgmental presence. I try to live my life with the same openness, embracing everyone, regardless of where they are on their journey. The shift to calling this divine energy "God" hasn’t changed my commitment to inclusion. It has, however, deepened my understanding of that connection. I still believe in the divine orchestration of life, but now, I feel that I am part of a more directed and intimate conversation. It’s as though my requests are being heard with a clarity I didn’t have before, a clarity that reminds me of the connection I have to something greater than myself, something that’s actively involved in my path. The connection and intimacy of prayer serves as a reminder to me that I am part of a relationship here, with God. I am not casting my energy out into a wild waving ocean, I am speaking directly to source and my words are being received and responded to. It’s been a beautiful and humbling shift, one that continues to evolve as I navigate my faith. Whether you call it the universe, God, or something else entirely, the belief in a higher power guiding us through this journey remains the same. What’s important is the trust we place in that force and the power of the words we use to call on it Growing up in the South, religion wasn’t a central part of my life. I had Catholic family members, and we would occasionally go to church, but religion was not a constant presence. Church was a place to repent after harm was caused in the community, not a space for worship or spiritual nourishment. I never felt connected to the kind of faith that emphasized guilt, shame, and fear, and it wasn’t long before I noticed how pervasive religious trauma was in my community.I disagreed with the way religion was used to perpetuate harm, especially within marginalized communities. As I grew older and reflected on the experiences around me, I began to recognize the emotional and psychological harm that toxic religious practices had on individuals, including myself.
For those who grew up in faith systems that prioritized moral codes over compassion and repentance over grace, the scars left behind were profound and long-lasting. It was in my later years, particularly during my adult return to the South, that I understood more deeply the intricate ways religious trauma can affect not just individuals, but entire communities. Religious trauma refers to the emotional, psychological, and spiritual harm caused by religious experiences or teachings. It often stems from toxic doctrines that emphasize fear, shame, and guilt rather than compassion, love, and acceptance. Growing up in the South, even with a limited religious presence in my life, I still observed how these teachings deeply affected people, especially women, people of color, and LGBTQ+ individuals. The harm wasn’t always overt, but it was there in subtle ways, an underlying current of shame that could become overwhelming. As I became older, I also began to see the trauma many people experienced as they wrestled with their sense of identity and faith. The emotional scars of religious trauma are long-lasting. For many, it manifests as depression, anxiety, and a fractured sense of self. Completing my PCRJ at Vermont Law School helped me understand the power of healing through dialogue, accountability, and mutual understanding. Restorative justice, unlike punitive systems that focus on punishment, centers on repairing harm and rebuilding relationships. It’s about reconciliation, recognizing harm, and finding ways forward together. When it comes to religious trauma, restorative justice offers a unique framework not just for survivors, but for entire religious communities. Restorative justice asks us to acknowledge the harm done, to validate the pain of those who have suffered, and to create spaces where survivors can reclaim their voice and agency. It also requires the painful but necessary task of holding accountable those responsible for the harm, whether that’s religious leaders, institutions, or individual members of the community. In doing so, restorative justice helps reconcile the past and builds a future where further harm is prevented. Healing is deeply personal, but it also has a communal aspect. The first step in restorative justice is acknowledging the harm caused. In the case of religious trauma in the South, this is crucial. Religious communities must recognize how their teachings and practices, such as strict moral codes, rigid gender roles, and the demonization of LGBTQ+ identities, have caused harm. Having the harm recognized can be an important first step toward healing. This requires leaders within the faith community to take responsibility, which can begin to rebuild trust in ways that punitive actions never could. A core principle of restorative justice is creating spaces where individuals can speak their truth and be heard. For survivors of religious trauma, this means providing environments where they can share their experiences—whether in support groups, public forums, or one-on-one conversations—without fear of judgment. These spaces are critical for survivors to process their grief, anger, confusion, and healing. As someone who has walked through both sides of the conversation, I know how powerful and necessary it is to allow people to express themselves fully. Restorative justice doesn’t focus on blame or punishment but on empathy and compassion. When it comes to religious trauma, this means creating an atmosphere where survivors feel safe to process their pain and anger. It’s not about absolving wrongdoers of their actions but offering a way for survivors to release the burden of resentment and find peace. Forgiveness in restorative justice is a tool for the survivor’s healing, not for excusing harmful actions. Restorative justice is fundamentally about empowerment. For survivors of religious trauma, particularly those who’ve experienced oppressive teachings, it offers the chance to reclaim one’s narrative. It provides a space to redefine identities, rediscover self-worth, and challenge the systems that perpetuated harm. Through restorative justice, survivors can confront the power dynamics that once left them voiceless and begin to reshape their lives, breaking free from the oppressive beliefs of the past. Restorative justice isn’t just about healing individuals, it’s about transforming communities. In the South, where religious identity is deeply woven into the fabric of life, restorative justice can be a tool for helping religious communities rebuild in ways that are inclusive, compassionate, and open to change. It involves dismantling harmful doctrines, creating safe spaces for diverse identities, and cultivating a culture of empathy and respect. Religious trauma is a complex and deeply personal issue, particularly for those of us who grew up in the South. It shapes our sense of self and our relationships with family, faith, and community. Yet, through my experiences of pain and healing, I’ve come to believe that restorative justice offers a powerful pathway forward. By acknowledging the harm, creating spaces for healing conversations, and empowering survivors to reclaim their voice, we can not only rebuild individuals but also transform entire communities. Restorative justice offers a means to heal the scars of religious trauma and create a path toward a more compassionate, inclusive, and loving faith for everyone. Anger is a deeply human emotion. It bubbles up in response to injustice, frustration, or hurt, and it can sometimes feel uncontrollable. For many, the question of how to handle anger becomes even more complex when seen through the lens of Christianity. We are often taught that anger is sinful, something to be eradicated or avoided at all costs. But is this truly what Christianity asks of us? Or is there a deeper, more transformative way of approaching anger that honors our humanity while aligning with the teachings of Christ?
First, let’s acknowledge that anger, in itself, is not a sin. The Bible makes this clear in passages like Ephesians 4:26: “In your anger do not sin.” This verse suggests that anger is a natural emotion, something we experience as part of our human condition. It isn’t inherently wrong to feel angry, just as it isn’t inherently wrong to feel joy, sadness, or fear. Emotions themselves are neutral, they are signals that help us process our internal states and navigate the world around us. I once had a friend who would pray before doing any action. I do not think that is what God asks of us. We are given emotions and feelings within our minds and bodies so that we can react to them. It is a way God speaks to us in small bits all throughout the day. We feel hunger and we eat. Prayer is there to thank God for the food we ate and give thanksgivings, but God has given us bodies that tell us when to eat so we do not have to ask if we should eat. When we feel anger, there is a reason. Prayer and messages throughout the bible are there to help us figure out what to do with the anger or how to carry it, not to eradicate the anger in one sudden sweep. Praying to God is not the same as wishing on a magic lamp, our desires do not occur suddenly the moment we speak of them. The issue arises, not in the emotion of anger itself, but in how we respond to it. How we carry and express anger can determine whether we act in a way that is constructive or destructive. Christianity doesn’t call us to ignore or suppress anger; rather, it asks us to transform it, to allow it to serve a higher purpose. Throughout the Bible, we see instances where anger is an appropriate and even righteous response. In the Gospels, for instance, Jesus becomes righteously angry when he sees merchants exploiting the poor in the temple (Matthew 21:12-13). His anger wasn’t rooted in personal hurt or petty grievances but in a deep desire for justice and the well-being of others. This aligns with the principles of restorative justice, which seeks to heal relationships and restore balance rather than merely punish wrongdoers. Restorative justice focuses on understanding the harm done, holding individuals accountable, and creating opportunities for restitution and reconciliation. In this light, Jesus' anger serves not as an end in itself but as a catalyst for a deeper, more compassionate pursuit of justice, where the focus is on restoring dignity, repairing relationships, and ensuring that all people, especially the marginalized, are treated with respect and fairness. Christianity invites us to channel anger towards constructive purposes, towards actions that reflect God’s justice and compassion. When we feel angry at injustice, inequality, or suffering, we are often prompted to act, to right wrongs, or to speak on behalf of the voiceless. Anger can propel us to make a difference, just as it moved Jesus to challenge the corruption in the temple. The key Christian message about anger is not one of suppression but transformation. In places like James 1:19-20, we are reminded to be “quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry,” because “human anger does not produce the righteousness that God desires.” This doesn't imply that anger is bad, but rather that unchecked anger can lead to harmful actions, actions that we might later regret or that don’t reflect God’s values. The transformation of anger involves taking a step back, reflecting on its source, and asking ourselves how best to express it. Rather than letting anger control us, we are called to let it inform us. What is the anger teaching us about ourselves? Is it a sign that we need to set boundaries? Is it pointing out an injustice that needs attention? By sitting with our anger, we create space for discernment, allowing God to guide us in how to channel that emotion in a way that honors both our feelings and our faith. While anger itself is not inherently sinful, Christianity does challenge us to address its lingering effects. In the Lord’s Prayer, we ask God to forgive us “as we forgive those who trespass against us.” Forgiveness is central to the Christian faith, not only for the sake of others but for our own peace and healing. Holding onto anger can be corrosive, leading to bitterness, resentment, and division. When we forgive, we release the burden of anger, allowing it to lose its grip on us. Forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting the wrong that was done or excusing harmful behavior. It’s about choosing not to let anger define us or control our actions. Through forgiveness, we transform anger into an opportunity for grace, both for ourselves and for others. Anger is a legitimate and powerful emotion, and when expressed in healthy ways, it can lead to positive change, promote justice, and deepen our connection with others. What Christ teaches us is not to bury our feelings, but to let them be an invitation to something greater; growth, compassion, forgiveness, restoration, and reconciliation. Rather than fighting against anger, we are called to hold it with intention. Let it be a tool for reflection, a springboard for justice, and a vehicle for healing. In doing so, we align ourselves not just with our own emotions, but with the heart of Christ, who, in his own anger, modeled a powerful, transformative love that calls us to live out our faith in a world in desperate need of grace. In today’s world, it's easy to get caught up in the idea that Christianity, especially in modern culture, is about judgment and punishment. Modern Christians, at times, have used Christianity to perpetuate harm rather than fostering healing and restoration as its teachings call for. This misuse of faith is seen in how certain groups justify discrimination, violence, or exclusion by citing scriptures or traditions that are taken out of context. Examples include using religious beliefs to oppose LGBTQ+ rights, advocate for racial segregation, or justify patriarchal structures that silence women. Rather than following the restorative message of love, compassion, and forgiveness embodied by Jesus, these actions serve to uphold systems of power and inequality. The true essence of Christianity, rooted in redemption and reconciliation, encourages healing and the uplifting of marginalized communities, but this vision is often overshadowed when faith is distorted for political or social gain.
It seems like many people view Jesus’ teachings as a moral code to uphold; strict rules to follow, with consequences for failure. But when we take a deeper look, especially through the lens of restorative justice, we see that Jesus wasn’t about retribution. He was about healing, forgiveness, and transformation. Restorative justice is a way of living, a way of being that aligns deeply with the heart of Jesus. When I reflect on His teachings, I see a constant thread of mercy, healing, and reconciliation woven throughout His life. And when I think of restorative justice, I see something that mirrors this heart. It’s not a punishment-based approach but one that focuses on understanding the root causes of harm, creating spaces for healing, and offering grace and mercy to those who have caused harm. Jesus didn’t heal in isolation, He healed in community. His entire ministry revolved around the relationships He formed with others. Jesus didn’t seek out the “perfect” people; He sought out the outcasts, the marginalized, the ones society had cast aside. The tax collectors, the prostitutes, the lepers—these were His people. He ate with them, spent time with them, and showed them they were worthy of belonging (Luke 5:29-32, Matthew 9:10-13). Restorative justice is a community-based approach to healing. It acknowledges that true healing doesn’t happen in isolation; it happens when we come together in solidarity, share our stories, and support each other. When we bring people together to engage in honest, sometimes uncomfortable, conversations, healing can begin. In my work as a doula, I’ve seen firsthand how vital it is to create a supportive, non-judgmental space for individuals, particularly those who have experienced trauma. Whether it's birth trauma or emotional pain, people need a community where they can be fully seen, heard, and supported as they heal. In our modern world, we’ve often turned justice into something punitive. We’ve been taught to demand retribution, to seek revenge, and to “pay back” those who have wronged us. But when we look at the life of Jesus, we see a different way, a way of healing, forgiveness, and transformation. Restorative justice takes us back to the heart of who Jesus was. It’s not about punishing the offender, it’s about breaking the cycle of harm, offering opportunities for change, and restoring relationships. It’s about seeing people not for their past mistakes, but for the potential of who they could become. This, I believe, is what Jesus wanted. He didn’t come to condemn; He came to restore. We are called, as Christians, to be agents of healing. We are called to forgive, to offer grace, even when it’s difficult. And we are called to do this in community—supporting each other through our healing journeys and striving to create spaces where everyone can be restored. Jesus’ teachings, especially around forgiveness and healing, lay the foundation for a restorative justice approach. There are several Bible verses that highlight these principles:
These verses demonstrate that Jesus was not about judgment, but about mercy, grace, and reconciliation. He called us to heal, not to harm; to forgive, not to punish. Just as Jesus didn’t look at people through the lens of their past mistakes, but through the potential of their future, we are called to do the same. Restorative justice encourages us to look at the root causes of harm, to seek healing instead of retribution, and to create spaces for transformation. It is through this process that we can truly begin to heal, not just as individuals, but as a community. In the modern world, this approach can be life-changing, particularly in areas like the criminal justice system, healthcare, and even in the ways we approach community building. When we focus on restoration, we can create a world that reflects the love and grace that Jesus embodied. Jesus came not to condemn the world, but to heal it. And He didn’t do it alone. He built a community of people who came together, offering forgiveness and grace, working through pain and suffering to bring about transformation. That is what restorative justice is all about: healing the wounds of the past and creating a better future for all. If we want to follow Jesus, we must do the same. It’s time for us, as a society, to reimagine justice, not as punishment, but as restoration. Childbirth is a transformative experience, yet for many, it is also marked by trauma. This trauma can have long-lasting impacts on both the birthing person and their infant, especially when compounded by systemic issues in healthcare. When we approach the intersection of restorative justice and birth work, we open a path to healing that honors the trauma experienced while simultaneously fostering accountability and systemic change. This approach can help address not only individual wounds but also the broader societal conditions that perpetuate harm, particularly for marginalized birthing parents.
The Impact of Trauma on Pregnancy and Birth Trauma, especially during pregnancy, can deeply affect both the birthing person and their child. When a pregnant person faces distress or trauma, whether physical, emotional, or psychological, it can lead to both short- and long-term effects on the infant. Short-term effects may include increased fetal heart rate or slower reaction times. Long-term consequences can be even more significant, such as psychopathology, unhealthy attachment styles, obesity, and mental health challenges throughout life. The biological basis for this lies in the HPA (Hypothalamic-Pituitary-Adrenal) axis, which regulates stress hormones like cortisol. Cortisol crosses the placenta, affecting the fetus, and long-term exposure can contribute to irritability, depression, poor sleep, and other issues. Importantly, trauma during the perinatal period isn’t just psychological—it is also physical. The Need for Trauma-Informed Care in Birth Work Support for those who have experienced trauma during the perinatal period requires a multi-faceted approach. Trauma-informed care, doula support, and childbirth education have all proven to be beneficial for reducing retraumatization and alleviating PTSD symptoms in birthing individuals. These practices create a compassionate, informed environment where birthing individuals are supported in their journey toward healing. However, the experiences of people of color—particularly Black, Indigenous, and other marginalized communities—can be significantly different. Black birthing people, for example, face a stark maternal health crisis, with the risk of dying during childbirth being three to four times higher than for white birthing people. This disparity is rooted in a history of medical mistreatment and racial discrimination, which only exacerbates the trauma experienced during pregnancy and childbirth. Alongside this, socioeconomic barriers—such as lack of access to transportation, childcare, and financial resources—further limit access to crucial interventions. The Need for Restorative Justice in Birth Work Restorative justice offers an innovative and healing-centered approach to addressing the trauma that often accompanies childbirth. At its core, restorative justice involves creating spaces where individuals impacted by harm can come together to acknowledge their experiences, heal, and rebuild relationships. In the context of birth work, restorative justice can help those who have suffered from medical mistreatment, abuse, or neglect during childbirth to reclaim their power and heal within a supportive community. When applied to childbirth, restorative justice practices can take many forms. For example, community circles allow survivors to share their birth stories in a safe and supportive environment. In Spokane, Washington, restorative justice circles are already being used to improve training for local healthcare workers, highlighting the transformative potential of this approach. Additionally, accountability measures for healthcare providers—such as probation periods with informed consent training—can promote growth and healing, both for the survivors and the practitioners themselves. Restorative justice emphasizes the importance of community involvement and accountability. By acknowledging the root causes of violence and mistreatment, such as systemic racism, healthcare professionals can work towards dismantling the biases and harmful practices that contribute to trauma in birthing spaces. This approach fosters a culture of mutual respect, empathy, and trust, which is crucial for breaking the cycles of mistreatment that disproportionately affect marginalized birthing parents. Centering the Experiences of BIPOC Birthing People The intersections of racism, healthcare, and gender-based violence are especially pronounced for Black, Indigenous, and People of Color (BIPOC) birthing individuals. For example, Black mothers face both increased risk of birth trauma and an increased likelihood of experiencing medical oppression during childbirth. These experiences are often compounded by implicit bias and a lack of culturally competent care. As a result, Black birthing individuals may not only experience physical harm during childbirth, but also long-lasting emotional and psychological scars. In the context of restorative justice, it is essential to center the experiences of these marginalized communities. Through processes like the Birth Trauma Restorative Justice Circle, we aim to support those who have been harmed by the healthcare system, particularly Black, Indigenous, and other marginalized birthing parents. This initiative provides a platform where survivors can express their trauma, rebuild their sense of agency, and take part in community-based healing. At the same time, it challenges healthcare professionals to confront their biases, engage in meaningful self-reflection, and create more equitable systems of care. Trauma-Informed Prenatal Interventions Interventions for birthing individuals who have experienced trauma must be multi-layered and tailored to the unique needs of each person. One crucial resource is Penny Simkin’s When Survivors Give Birth, which provides practical guidance for integrating trauma-informed care into the perinatal period. This care should extend across the prenatal, labor, delivery, and postpartum stages of birth, with special attention paid to the needs of those who are at greater risk of trauma, such as BIPOC and LGBTQ+ individuals. Effective interventions, when used together, can reduce the likelihood of retraumatization and improve outcomes for both birthing individuals and their infants. Providers—whether doctors, midwives, doulas, or nurses—should be trained in a variety of modalities to offer holistic, individualized care that addresses the mental, emotional, and physical impacts of trauma. The Role of Restorative Justice Circles in Birth Trauma The Birth Trauma Restorative Justice Circle is designed to provide a healing space for survivors of birth trauma, particularly those from marginalized communities. Through restorative justice practices, we create a collective process that acknowledges harm, fosters empathy, and promotes growth and accountability within the healthcare system. One example of this process is community circles where individuals impacted by birth trauma can share their experiences in a safe and supportive space. These circles also serve as a platform for providers to reflect on their practices and take accountability for their roles in perpetuating harm. In addition, these circles can influence training programs and policies within the healthcare system to ensure more culturally competent and empathetic care. Through the lens of restorative justice, we aim not just to heal individuals but to create systemic change that prevents further trauma in the future. This includes addressing institutional racism, implicit bias, and the mistreatment of marginalized birthing individuals in healthcare spaces. Building a Culture of Accountability and Healing The journey toward healing for birth trauma survivors is complex, but restorative justice offers a path forward. By recognizing the emotional, physical, and psychological toll that trauma takes on birthing people, we can build a more compassionate, accountable, and trauma-informed healthcare system. This system must not only address the needs of survivors but also promote systemic change that dismantles the structures of oppression that perpetuate harm. Through restorative justice practices, we can create a supportive and healing environment for all birthing individuals, particularly those from historically marginalized communities. In doing so, we take a step toward a future where trauma is no longer a permanent part of the childbirth experience, but rather a catalyst for growth, healing, and collective transformation. Restorative justice, to me, is more than just an academic concept, a form of parallel justice, or a legal framework. It feels like something I live, breathe, and struggle to understand. It's a way of being that mirrors the heart of Jesus, whose teachings have pierced through the harsh edges of my life, calling me to see things differently.
To forgive. To heal. To restore. This is a practice that requires much of you your humility, your vulnerability, your willingness to meet pain head-on and still choose mercy. But, maybe, that’s exactly what we need: a constant reminder to look beyond retribution and to embrace the possibility of transformation individually and collectively. One of the things that strikes me most about Jesus' life and ministry is his radical forgiveness. When Jesus speaks of forgiveness in the Gospels seventy-seven times, not just seven, in Matthew 18 it’s not some idealized concept; it requires vulnerability and resiliency. It goes against everything the world seems to stand for. The world tells us to demand justice, to exact revenge. But Jesus calls us to do something altogether different: he calls us to forgive without counting the cost, to extend grace when I’d rather hold onto my hurt. And, for me, this isn't just a nice sentiment; it's a lifeline. I often wrestle with my own grudges, and I know the grip they have on me. But when I try to forgive, when I choose it, even in the smallest moments, I feel myself being freed from the bitterness that weighs so heavily on my soul. It is why my life has felt so peaceful recently. I have always been spiritual and felt divinely guided, but this feels different. Forgiveness isn't just for the offender it’s for me. It's a release. But it’s not just about forgiveness; it’s about healing, too. Jesus didn’t go around condemning people to punishment. He healed them. And in that healing, he was restoring the very thing that had been broken physically, emotionally, spiritually. One of the most powerful examples of this is the woman caught in adultery. The people around her were quick to judge, eager to see her punished and cast aside, condemning her to a life of shame. But Jesus didn’t join in their judgment. He saw her not as a sinner to be scorned, but as a person in need of grace and transformation. He didn’t give her what society thought she deserved he gave her a chance: a chance to be restored, a chance to start anew. This is something that comes up in the work I do now. With such a strong focus on advocacy for women, gender-based violence particularly relating to sex work comes up in conversation. For some, this may feel like an empowering choice, but for others, it is a place they are trapped in due to cycles of trauma from before they were even conceived. Restorative Justice is not about holding someone to their past, especially when there are so many factors at play keeping people trapped in painful trauma responses. It’s about healing, about restoring relationships and helping people rise beyond the hurt and judgment they’ve faced. There’s something so raw and powerful about this: to see someone not for the mistakes they’ve made but for the person they could become. And then there’s the power of community. Jesus was a master of it of loving and being loved in community, of recognizing that no one can truly heal alone. He didn’t shy away from the outcasts, the ones society rejected. In fact, he sought them out. The tax collectors, the prostitutes, the lepers they were his people. He ate with them, loved them, and in doing so, he told them they were worthy of belonging. I think about that a lot how we, too, are called to reach beyond ourselves, to build community where healing happens. It’s messy. It’s uncomfortable. And it’s absolutely necessary. In my own life, I’ve learned that true healing only happens when we lean into each other, when we’re willing to engage in those hard, awkward, painful conversations, the ones that don’t come easy. But those are the moments when we make space for the grace we all desperately need. We are not meant to live in isolation. God gives us gifts, not for us to hoard them, but to share them. We are meant to help each other carry our burdens. When I think about restorative justice and Jesus, I’m reminded of one essential truth: healing is not about punishment. It’s not about retribution. It’s about breaking cycles of harm and offering something new. It’s not easy. Jesus didn’t shy away from pain or suffering he entered into it. And that’s exactly what restorative justice does. It enters into the mess, acknowledging the hurt, owning the brokenness, but always with the hope of redemption. And, my God, isn’t that what we need more of in the world? Not condemnation. Not shunning. But a space for people to be fully seen, to take accountability, to change, and to be welcomed back into the fold. What happens when we face grief head-on instead of shying away from it? Jesus didn’t come to condemn; he came to restore. He didn’t come to judge; he came to heal. And I think about how often I fall short of this in my own life. How often I want to judge, to hold onto my hurt, to demand retribution. But Jesus calls me to something greater. He calls me to something far more difficult to love, to forgive, to heal, and it honestly feels more aligned with who I am. God gave me the gift of a big emotional heart (feels like a curse sometimes, but I choose to view it as a gift) and the ability to heal others through my work in advocacy, writing, and birthwork. As a doula, I’ve seen firsthand how powerful it can be to hold space for someone’s healing journey especially for those who’ve experienced trauma. The deep trust that builds between a doula and a birthing person is often the key to a transformative experience. In my work, I’ve witnessed how important it is to support individuals not just through physical birth, but through their emotional healing as well. For those who’ve faced sexual trauma or abuse, providing a trauma-informed, compassionate environment is critical. I’ve seen how these small but powerful acts of care can create a space where true healing begins. In my journey, I’ve come to understand that many of the issues we face especially in the realms of justice, healthcare, and community are deeply intertwined with generational trauma and systemic inequalities. It’s easy to look at an individual and place the blame solely on them when harm occurs, but I’ve learned that this approach misses the bigger picture. Harm is often not just a product of one person’s actions; it’s a reflection of systems that have been in place for generations, systems that perpetuate cycles of trauma, oppression, and injustice. Whether it’s in maternal healthcare, criminal justice, or other areas of life, we cannot ignore the historical and structural factors that shape the experiences of marginalized communities. This realization has been central to my work in restorative justice and birthwork. When we only focus on the individual who caused harm, we fail to address the root causes that allow harm to happen in the first place. For example, in my doula work, I’ve seen how racial disparities in healthcare are not just the result of isolated incidents, but part of a broader pattern of systemic neglect and abuse, particularly for birthing people of color. The trauma these individuals carry is not just their own; it’s inherited and passed down through generations of oppression. This generational trauma shapes their experiences of healthcare, their trust in the system, and their access to resources. True healing, then, requires a shift from an individualistic approach to one that examines and challenges the larger systems at play. We need to ask the hard questions about why these cycles persist and what it will take to break them. In restorative justice, we seek to address the harm in a way that acknowledges the broader context, including the social, economic, and historical forces that contribute to the situation. Only by addressing the systems as a whole by recognizing the patterns of harm and dismantling the structures that perpetuate them can we hope to create lasting, meaningful change. An essential aspect of creating meaningful healing measures is the involvement of community members themselves particularly those who have experienced harm or oppression. The lived experience of those directly impacted by systemic injustice provides invaluable insight into the most effective ways to address harm and promote healing. No one knows better what is needed than the people who have walked through the very systems that perpetuate the harm. In my work, particularly in the realm of restorative justice and birthwork, I’ve learned that the healing process cannot be dictated by those outside the community. It must come from within. This means creating space for individuals to share their experiences, define their own needs, and contribute to the design of healing practices. For instance, in birth justice, the experiences of marginalized birthing individuals especially those from Black, Indigenous, and other communities of color must be at the center of any reform. These individuals often carry cultural practices, wisdom, and resilience that have helped them survive and navigate systems designed to harm them. Honoring these practices, involving community members in the conversation, and incorporating their knowledge into healing measures ensures that the solutions are not only grounded in the reality of their experiences but also respectful of their cultural heritage and strengths. By empowering communities to be leaders in their own healing, we create a more inclusive and just approach to restorative practices. When we center the voices of those most affected, we build solutions that are not only compassionate and relevant but also sustainable, because they are rooted in the very communities that need them most. What happens when we look grief in the eye the way Jesus would want us to? What happens when we consider all people, even the ones that do not consider us? 
The light isn't green forever. AuthorJess Kimball is a Full Spectrum Doula and Certified Lactation Counselor trained in Ayurvedic and Chinese medicine. 
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