Preparing to Descend

Aug 3

It Started with a Question

Entering August, I found myself wondering if there was anything significant about this month. Not just because it's another page on the calendar, but because I've come to believe that everything is connected. The rhythms we experience in nature don't seem separate from the rhythms we experience within ourselves, so whenever something catches my attention, I become curious about the pattern behind it.

As usual, my mind wandered first to the maternal journey.

That's often where my reflections begin. Not because I believe everything is about pregnancy or birth, but because the maternal journey has become the clearest lens through which I understand life. Pregnancy, labor, birth, postpartum, motherhood, even perimenopause...they're all seasons that live beneath the much larger umbrella of womanhood. When I begin there, I usually find myself seeing connections that stretch far beyond maternity.

Following that thought a little further, another question emerged.

If July represents the peak of summer, and if I were to plot the year on a bell curve or even a labor contraction, what is August?

At first the answer seemed simple.

August is the turning point.

The Season Before the Season

That's when I realized something I had never consciously noticed before.

August is the last full month of summer.

September is when we begin experiencing the transition into fall, but August is where the preparation quietly begins. The calendar still says summer. The trees haven't suddenly changed overnight. Most of what we see looks exactly the same. Yet something is already shifting. It's subtle enough that we could miss it entirely if we weren't paying attention.

Preparation begins before the season changes.

That realization stayed with me longer than I expected. Nature doesn't seem to wait until a new season arrives before preparing for it. The preparation happens while we're still calling it by the old name.

One Word Changed Everything

Another thought appeared.

If August is preparing for what's next, the season we call Autumn, more commonly known as Fall, maybe it's about preparing to descend.

That word caught me off guard.

Descend.

I wasn't looking for it, and honestly, I wasn't immediately comfortable with it. Descending can sound heavy. It can make us think about falling, losing momentum, or giving something up. Rather than replacing the word with one that felt easier, I decided to stay with it.

Why does descending feel unsettling?

*If July is the peak of the year, holds the peak of summer, and if plotted on a bell curve would be designated as the peak of a contraction, what is August?*

**August is the turning point.**

The Hill

Almost immediately another image came into my mind.

Imagine driving toward the top of a hill. You've spent time climbing and then, almost without noticing, gravity begins taking over. It's fascinating how differently people respond to that same moment. Some instinctively press the brakes. Others tighten their grip on the steering wheel. Then there are those who almost seem excited by the feeling, leaning into the descent as though they've been waiting for it all along.

Each encounters the same hill, the same gravity.

Yet somehow we each develop a different relationship with the experience.

What makes one woman brace while another seems able to move with the flow? Is it personality? Is it experience? Is it something we've learned? Does it depend on how much we've been carrying before we ever reached the top of the hill?

I didn't have an answer.

Only more questions.

The Brakes

As those questions continued unfolding, I realized I wasn't actually trying to figure out whether we should keep our foot on the brake or throw our hands into the air.

Maybe those aren't the only two choices.

When we're driving downhill, we don't usually slam on the brakes the entire way, and we don't always take our feet completely off them either. We adjust, ease up, and press down when it's needed, then release again. There's a relationship between trust and attentiveness that allows us to keep moving without feeling out of control.

For a spilt second, I relaxed thinking, that’s the revelation of the month.

Preparation isn't about stopping the descent.
It's about learning how we'd like to experience it.

At least, that's what I thought.

Then the Reflection Deepened

Learning how to ease off the brakes, learning how to descend without feeling out of control, seemed like enough to sit with for one month.

However, like most moments of reflection, one leads to another, which leads to another.

What if I've already practiced bracing long enough?

I know how to use the brakes. I don't have to imagine what it feels like to grip. I know that feeling well. In many ways my body has been faithfully mirroring what I've been doing energetically. Tight places that don't want to let go. Catching myself clenching without realizing it. Having to intentionally remember to soften my jaw, release my shoulders, relax my core and pelvic floor, take a full breath.

Maybe it’s time to release.

Ripe & Ready

Leading up to the peak of summer, nature doesn't brace fruit into maturity or stiffen to prepare for harvest season.

Pregnancy doesn't prepare for birth by becoming harder.

The body softens, hips spread, the cervix ripens.

Tissues become more receptive.

Everything necessary for birth happens through readiness rather than force.

Readiness to open, to receive, to respond.

So, what can we do during this season to become more ripe ? How do we recognize when we are ready?

Following the Urge

Somewhere between thinking about ripening and thinking about the descent, I realized I'd skipped over something. I'd become so focused on preparing for the fall that I'd quietly started behaving as though summer was already over. Yet every time I looked outside, nature kept interrupting me. Nothing is winding down. Gardens are still producing. Fruit is still ripening. Everything that opened in spring is continuing the work of becoming, which made me wonder why I was so eager to leave the season I was still standing in.

Looking back, I realized I haven't actually struggled with the request to open. I’ve had no issues with the build up of the waves themselves. I've always loved the feeling, the opening, the stretching, the softening. Surrendering to that process has never felt difficult because the wave wasn't asking anything of me except to stay present and allow it to do what it came to do. Somewhere along the way, that became a skill I trusted.

But everything changes when the urge arrives.

Until then, the wave has been asking me not to activate. It asks me to soften instead of tighten, to open instead of resist. Then, almost without warning, the conversation changes. The same wave that had been asking for surrender now asks me to participate. It calls different parts of me to engage. It invites me to add my effort to something that's already happening, and that's the place where I've historically become uncomfortable.

The more I sat with that, the more I realized the discomfort isn't really about pushing. It's about what I've made pushing mean. Somewhere I've come to believe that if I follow the urge completely, it will cost me my peace. Yet resisting the urge hasn't protected my peace either. It has simply kept the pressure building inside until it found another way to get my attention.

That thought led me somewhere I hadn't expected.

Why have I been acting as though all of the support disappears once it's time to push? During the opening, I instinctively reach for every comfort measure available. I dim the lights, turn on the music, sway, breathe, get into the water, lean on my support people, create an environment that helps me stay present. Then the urge arrives and somehow I forget that birth doesn't suddenly stop being supported. Where's my squat bar? My sling? The mineral oil? My coach? My people? Can I push standing, squatting, kneeling, in the water? Can I still step into the sun between contractions and let it warm me? Cool off. Drink some water. Laugh. Rest. Let the next wave build instead of rushing ahead of it. Why was I acting as though pushing meant abandoning everything that helped me trust the journey in the first place?

Maybe that's been my mistake.

I've been treating surrender and pushing like they're two different experiences when they're really part of the same one. The opening requires surrender. The urge requires surrender too, just in a different form. Instead of surrendering by softening, I'm surrendering by trusting the reflex my body has been preparing for all along. The effort isn't separate from the flow. It's my way of joining it.

As I sat there, I couldn't ignore the parallel. This reflection had done the same thing to me. I loved exploring the idea. I loved watching it unfold, asking questions, following the waves wherever they led. Then came the moment when it was time to bring something forth, and suddenly all I wanted to do was stop. I wanted to skip over the very part that gives birth to what's been growing.

Maybe that's what August has been trying to show me.

She's preparing for the fall by fully embracing summer. Not by pretending the work is finished, but by allowing summer to complete what she began.

Perhaps that's what I'm being invited to do too. Stay with the season I'm in. Trust the urge when it comes. Reach for the support that's already around me. Then participate in the release instead of fearing it, knowing that restoration isn't something I have to chase. It arrives after the work of this season has been allowed to become complete.

LeShanta Baker