Mother Blues: Interfaith Somatic Reflections on Support Systems, Chronic Pain, Tension Relief, and Supporting Oneself by Chaz J

I have had a weird relationship with my stomach or core BEFORE birth. 

My back has been hurting since giving birth.

I’ve carried fragments of my birth story like heirlooms,
passed down in murmurs from my mother and family.
They say she went into labor at home,
a warm plate of food in her hands,
My aunt Akami recalls she refused to leave for the hospital
until every bite was finished.

I came into the world under sudden urgency—
an emergency C-section,
my first act a quiet rebellion:
I had soiled the waters before taking my first breath.

My mother remembers it in a haze,
“I was pregnant, went to sleep…
when I woke up, there was a baby in the corner.”

I do not know if every detail is true,
but the outline fits—
the origin of a loneliness that has followed me
like a shadow that never unhooks from the heel.

I entered this life alone,
and the echo of that solitude
has never quite left me.

Throughout my life, my stomach has spoken in fits and tremors—
not always loud, but never silent.
What I once thought were random aches
were messengers, knocking in the night
to wake me from sleep with pain I could not name.

I would rise, small and aching,
make my way to my parents’ room
in search of comfort, a remedy,
some arms to hold the hurt still.
But there was nothing—
no cure, no warmth, only absence
wearing the shape of silence.

Pepto Bismol pinked my tongue like ritual,
but the ache remained.
I sat on the toilet for hours,
sometimes drifting off mid-spasm,
so my body could be ready
for the next great wave of release.

Now I know the name—
Irritable Bowel Syndrome, they call it.
But the diagnosis only skims the surface.

My gut burned with more than digestion—
it held the heat of rage,
the knot of tension,
the slow throb of despair,
the sharp pulse of grief,
the deep ache of heartache.

Even now, I am still listening,
still learning
what else lives there,
beneath the churn.

---

I always thought it was the food—
something in the diet,
something I could cut out or cleanse away.
In college, I traded fast meals
for a conscious plate,
and for a while, it worked—
my stomach softened, quieted,
as if it, too, was trying to heal.

But even then,
I found myself in sterile rooms,
answering questions doctors couldn’t decode,
curling around an ache
that had no name on the chart.

a flare, a pattern,
but to me,
it felt like chaos with no rhythm,
a tide that came when it pleased.

It took years—
and a slowing down—
to see it for what it was:
not just food,
not just digestion,
but a body speaking the language
of buried grief,
of unspoken fear,
of memory stored not in mind,
but in flesh.

These pains were not random.
They were somatic—
truths my body carried
when my voice could not.

There were moments in my family—
small ruptures, quiet exclusions—
that struck the old chords:
abandonment, rejection,
the ache of being the black sheep.

I told myself,
“It is what it is.”
I told my friends the same.
But my body told another story.
My shoulders clenched so tight
I felt like I was drowning just standing still.

The first panic attack came quietly,
underneath a tree after work—
a breath stolen by invisible hands.
Then another two weeks later,
and another two weeks after that.

While lying on a massage table,
  a trigger beneath my shoulder blades
and something broke—
waves of emotion flooding out
as I sobbed into the face cradle,
surprised by my own release.

And then the fire returned—
in the belly, in the night,
the old familiar sting of IBS
twisting me awake.

That’s when the pattern revealed itself.
My stomach flared
not just from food,
but from feeling cast out,
from being unseen, unheld—
abandoned,
rejected,
ungrounded,
unsupported.

My body had remembered
what I tried so hard to forget.

A vast pillar of the foundation of Interfaith Womanism is community. But what happens when you have none? My journey is one of strengthening my core to support my own back bone. 

Back:

My back has ached
since the day I gave birth in 2020—
a low, constant hum
of pain I learned to carry.

In 2023, I let go of weight—
a breast reduction,
a hope that lightness would follow.
But the pain deepened instead,
as if my body whispered,
“There is more to this than weight.”

I began to train my posture,
to stand taller,
to unlearn the folding in.
But when burnout came like wildfire last year,
my back gave out even more,
the ache now a daily consumption.

Listening closer—somatically,
curiously—I began to understand:
the spine holds us upright,
but the core must support the spine.
And the core, I realized,
was not just physical.
To support myself,
I must return to my center—
stand inside myself with strength,
with stillness,
with care.

Four and a half years after birth,
I learned the name for what I felt:
diastasis recti—
my abdominal wall had split,
my core had been pulled apart.

And I grieved.

I grieved not just the separation in my body,
but the absence of care that let it go unseen.
I had never been held in an environment
that asked how I was doing—
not really.
Never supported enough
to support myself.

No one had checked me.
No one had told me.
No one had made space
for my healing.

And I was angry—
not just at the silence,
but at how long I had survived without being seen.

These are some spiritual and somatic reasons for healing. 

 Spiritual or Symbolic Meaning of Diastasis Recti:

• Loss of Core Identity or Centering:
  • The rectus abdominis muscles form the “core” — physically and symbolically.
  • Separation at the midline may reflect a spiritual disconnection from one’s inner strength, identity, or center.
  • It may symbolize feeling “pulled apart,” split between roles, or disconnected from your sense of self.
• A Call to Return to Wholeness:
  • The separation might symbolize a fracturing that asks for spiritual realignment or reintegration.
  • Healing the core can be a metaphor for reclaiming inner truth, authenticity, and wholeness.
• Energetic Weakening of the Solar Plexus (Manipura Chakra):
  • The abdominal area is the seat of the solar plexus chakra, linked to personal power, will, self-confidence, and transformation.
  • A separation here could suggest a block or imbalance in expressing your personal power or purpose.
  • Could point to experiences of overextension, lack of boundaries, or energetic depletion.
• Overstretching in Service or Sacrifice:
  • Spiritually, this condition often affects postpartum individuals. It may symbolize the stretching of self to accommodate others — such as in motherhood or caretaking.
  • This can represent a transformation of identity but also a need for integration and healing after that giving.

Affirmations for Core strengthening and back support

• “My core is returning. My strength is sacred.”
• “I carry life, I carry light, and now I carry myself.”
• “The winds of change restore me, not destroy me.”
• “My body is beautiful through every phase of its becoming.”

It finally feels like all the work that I have done to be whole and find home within myself is integrating itself in every area of my life.