You lie swaddled in lilac cloth and adoration, and I wince as hard plastic scratches at my nipple; a stranger mining my body for liquid gold

How do I deal with this guilt that says a good mother must never be too ambitious, must never leave her children’s sight?

I felt abandoned and alone. I was told that it was at odds with what mothers should feel, do feel, after childbirth.

I never dreamed about what pregnancy would be like, I didn’t ever envision the whole thing from beginning to end.

To express pain is to let yourself go. To let your body scatter in many places. To scream is to transport your voice, your pain.

It is now 17 years since the birth of my first child, and my altered body has finally begun to feel right.

I stood under a shower, my breasts drooping closer to my stomach, and I thought: oh, you sad things! It’s too early to fall asleep.

What fire awaits her body’s glow To push bone against bone in that slow Transition from woman to mother.

I can’t lie: it’s delicious, this time away from you; it’s precious, as are you.

"My mother raised 7 children, loves us all unconditionally, and so I trusted her. I allowed her to take care of me and my infants."

In this second episode, Ukamaka Olisakwe chats with panelists about maternal mental health in the age of social distancing.

Meet the panelists for the second episode of #TheBodyConversation webinar.

Hear from women from diverse communities and a medical professional speak about postpartum depression and complications.

Hi Everyone! My name is Ukamaka Olisakwe and I am here to talk about what happens to the woman’s body before, during and after...