I’ve always felt that we go through our challenges, our traumas, and our hardest moments because they shape us into better humans in the long run. They stretch us, test us, crack us open, and somehow reveal more of who we really are.
This morning reminded me of that — violently, messily, and unexpectedly.
I woke around my usual time, somewhere between 3:30 and 4 a.m. — the witching hours. I floated in that half-sleep, half-meditation state I call beditation. One of my favourite authors coined the term, and it’s become the only accurate word for those quiet early-morning moments where you drift between worlds.
I was mid-beditation when I heard our little white goat, Evie, go into full-blown labour.
Her second pregnancy.
Her first had been long and difficult.
And she is tiny.
Normally, goats don’t need human intervention — they really are incredible mothers. But I knew her screams. They were different this time. Sharper. Panicked.
Ron had just left for work.
I rolled out of bed, remembering I was only three weeks into a broken ankle and strapped into a moon boot I had to wear even while sleeping. The ground outside was wet, slippery, and uneven from heavy rain. Every rock and stick is a nightmare with a moon boot — but there was no time to think about that.
I locked the four dogs on the verandah, climbed onto my knee scooter, and hobbled out toward the paddock.
When I reached the dam wall, I saw her — Evie straining, the sac already broken, a tiny hoof and nose emerging. She screamed and heaved as the other goats gathered around her, rearing up, almost shepherding her into staying still.
I tried to climb the slope toward her, but it was impossible — steep, slick mud, no grip, one good foot. My heart was hammering. Adrenaline kicked in. I was terrified for her, and honestly, terrified for myself.
I dropped to my hands and knees and whispered, “Please, God, help this little one.” Then I clawed my way upward, using all my strength slipping and sliding, grabbing at lantana bushes for traction. Every second counted.
The goats worked with me in their own way — rearing up whenever Evie tried to bolt from fear. And then, with one more scream, one more push, the baby slid free… and straight down the muddy slope away from her mother.
Evie froze. Shock. Fear. No instinct kicking in yet.
The baby wriggled helplessly, still half-wrapped in the sac, crying out louder each second.
I had to get to her.
So back down I went — reversing on my hands and knees again, through mud, blood, and ants — grabbing the slippery newborn, holding her in one hand while crawling back up the slope. Evie watched me, trembling.
When I reached them both, Evie finally stepped forward and accepted her daughter. Relief flooded through me as she began to clean and nuzzle the tiny kid. Life, despite everything, had prevailed.
But I was shaking.
Covered in mud and blood.
Still in fight-or-flight.
And then the anger hit.
Not at the goats.
Not at the mud.
At Ron.
Because trauma often makes us irrational.
“If he didn’t always rush off so early for work…”
“If he had breakfast with me like normal people…”
“If he were here, I wouldn’t have had to do this alone…”
By the time I reached the house, I was beyond triggered. Exhausted. In pain. Overwhelmed. Grieving something deeper I couldn’t quite name.
I grabbed my phone and typed:
“Why do you have to go to work so fucking early?
The white goat had her baby and she’s probably dead now!
I can’t do this. I’m leaving.”
It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t true.
But trauma doesn’t care about logic.
Ron called immediately, but I couldn’t speak. I was drowning in adrenaline and tears. I was stuck — physically, emotionally, mentally. No escape, no car, no second leg to stand on.
In the shower I sobbed, letting the water wash away the blood, mud, and fear. And because trauma loves a scapegoat, I made everything his fault. Every unmet need. Every loneliness. Every burden.
Half an hour later he called again — panicked.
“I’m coming home.”
“No. Don’t you dare. You just got to work.”
But he came anyway.
I dressed properly this time — long pants, knee pads, gloves. I hobbled back out to the dam, found Evie and her baby bonding beautifully. Life had moved forward, as it always does.
Ron arrived breathless.
“Is the baby okay?”
“Yes.”
And then, irrationally, “Why do you have to go every day? I don’t want to be here.”
“How was I supposed to know she was giving birth today?”
Silence.
Somewhere inside me, clarity whispered:
You’re not angry at him. You’re overwhelmed. Triggered. Scared. And you did something incredibly hard on your own.
We stood together in the paddock, watching mother and daughter settle into their new life together.
“Well,” Ron said gently, “I think this little one’s name should be Hope.”
And he was right.
I sat with this experience for a number of days, why did I get so triggered? Then the answer came during a beditation one morning. To be continued …Part Two