The Power of the Lullaby
Written reflections for Mother’s Day — 11 May 2025 Yesterday was Mother’s Day — and with this commemoration of Mothers and Motherhood, I want to feel into the power of the lullaby: what it means for motherhood, and what it truly is. The power of the lullaby. There are a few threads I want to explore: Discovering the power of the lullaby as a motherDiscovering its power in labourAnd witnessing how it settles the nervous system — not just for the baby, but for everyone When I say “lullaby,” I don’t just mean Hush, Little Baby or Rock-a-bye Baby — though those songs have their place. It’s more than that. Having had four children, I found myself — again and again — in the darkness and stillness of the night, alone with my baby. In those moments, I had to draw on an inner strength, very similar to how I had to tap into that inner strength in labour. There are times when every mother reaches that place — where it feels like you almost can’t go on, yet there you are: rocking, walking, lying with, or feeding your baby. Deep presence is called for. I believe that the essence of the lullaby was born from those moments. It’s the rhythm, the repetition — that rocking motion, both sonic and physical — that makes a lullaby so powerful. Many are passed down through generations and across cultures. They’re usually very simple. Like the Zulu lullaby Tula Baba. Just Tula Baba, Tula Baba… over and over again. It’s not about the complexity. It’s about the transmission. The lullaby is drawn from the place where you feel you have nothing left to give. It’s from that well that so much of motherhood is sourced. And it is a deep, incredible power to be able to tap into that. In labour, I found something similar. Each of my births taught me something different, but in all of them, my voice became a tool. A resource. With my fourth birth, it wasn’t just a tool — it became a channel. When a surge came and I fully opened to it, a sound emerged that was high, pure, and clean. I wasn’t using my voice just to express; I was letting something move through me. It became a channelling of life force. I’ve sung my whole life. It’s always been a way of expressing myself. But singing after birth — after having resourced myself through voice in labour and then using that same voice to connect with my children — something changed. I no longer feel like I’m singing from myself. I feel like I’m singing through myself. That I’m resourcing from the infinite. That’s what labour teaches. What motherhood teaches. That we can only go so far within ourselves. There comes a point where we must draw from beyond — from life force, God, Great Spirit… Now, when I sing, I don’t feel like I’m the one doing it. My voice is the instrument, my body the tool, but what’s moving through is life itself. That is the power of the...
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In her book Misconceptions: Truth, Lies, and the Unexpected on the Journey to Motherhood, feminist writer and mother, Naomi Wolf speaks about her experience of becoming a mother for the first time. One of the things she wrote that stood out for me was how this highly regarded intellectual, academic, writer, author, woman, suddenly found herself to be an unseen person. She was walking down the street with her infant, and one of her students walked right past her, did not recognise her, in fact, the student did not even see her. I know that before I gave birth, I did not value mothers or motherhood in the way I did after I gave birth for the first time. I loved my mother and I respected her, but I do not think that I fully valued or saw who she was and what she had done to bring me into this world. During my first labour, I remember my mother’s eyes, soft, dark, familiar, slightly concerned, loving, strong, holding me, carrying me through this experience. And I remember at one point asking her, “How the hell did you do this four times?” She smiled, then laughed softly, shook her head and said, “I don’t know…” And continued to hold me with her gentle touch and soft eyes. After I gave birth for the first time I was high, the love hormone oxytocin coursing through my entire being. The world melted away and the importance of anything beyond the little bubble of warm cosy devotion I inhabited with my newborn son, evaporated. Everything dissolved, except for my deep connection, regard, admiration, and respect for all mothers in the world. I saw mothers and motherhood in a new light and I wanted to bow at the feet of all motherhood. I could feel their sweat, their pain, their love. And any mother who had given birth more than once, was most certainly a goddess. Her work, her love, was beyond my comprehension and understanding. I was in awe. Standing on the other end of having given birth four times myself (and that lovely strong bolus of oxytocin long having left my system) and now having attended numerous births, I feel very strongly that our work as those present at births is to mother the new mother. When a woman births, not only is a baby being born, but so is a mother. How we treat her will affect how she feels about herself as a mother and as a parent. Be gentle. Be kind. Listen. She knows best. She is the mother of this child after all. Or as the mother of midwifery, Ina May Gaskin so eloquently put it: ”If a woman doesn’t look like a goddess during labor, then someone isn’t treating her right.” Happy Mother’s Day…to all the...
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