As a student, I can say that I've seen both sides of the coin. I've seen success, and in the same vein, failure. I'm no stranger to failure: I failed my driving test twice before passing, and I failed the first year of my A-levels before having to go back a year, and actually making a good go of it.
During my degree, I was doing fairly well, until my third year, when I bombed out in spectacular fashion. Thinking back, I can trace this to my second year and a particular incident where a mentor shouted at me. This incident stayed with me for quite some time, and unknowingly ate away at the slivers of self-confidence I had just begun to build. Please don't hear this as an attack on that particular mentor; I forgave that person so long ago and we all have bad days—I just seemed to catch someone on one of theirs.
Sometimes though, it is the smallest thing that opens a crack, like a thorn in an open wound that is wiggled every time another ‘small comment’ is made, opening that space wider and allowing infestation and disease to spread deeper inward, until you're not quite sure who you are.
This is what happened—that shaky self-confidence instead replaced with a lack of belief in myself and in my skills. It was a gradual thing really; I found myself feeling down, unable to bring myself out of a funk. I went to the doctor and had some medication, which helped enormously. So it went; I would be fine for a while, then sink lower, and my medication was upped. You may ask what were those around me doing in all of this. You know what? They were actually supportive. I was open and honest about my struggles; I sought help.
However, sometimes you can have all the help in the world, all the good intentions, but the battle against your own mind is lost and the worst happens.
‘Sometimes though, it is the smallest thing that opens a crack, like a thorn in an open wound that is wiggled every time another ‘small comment’ is made, opening that space wider and allowing infestation and disease to spread deeper inward, until you're not quite sure who you are’
Well, it did: I failed my final placement. I once had a lecturer say to me that mentors should treat students how we would treat the women in our care. I have thought on this a lot, especially during the lowest points.
I once had a panic attack in front of a mentor at the start of a 12-hour shift, and went on trying to ‘be brave.’
I cried—oh, I cried on so many people—I stopped wearing mascara because I was fed up of it running. One mentor told me I needed to ‘get over it.’
Would decisions have stayed the same if these events had taken place in the context of care, rather than a student? I have wondered that, but of course I don't know about the conversations that took place while I wasn't there. This is one perspective of a multi-layered, complex situation, and it's good to remember that.
I hit rock bottom; it was too much, the world was spinning and I just wanted to get off. A frantic email to university later, and I was pulled from practice.
I had therapy, so much therapy. I still felt fragile, but no longer felt the darkness swallowing me up. The worst had happened, but I was still breathing and the world carried on as normal.
I went back into practice. I was given a very gentle and very patient mentor, who, as you would with a traumatised dog, simply sat back and let me come to her. She let me cry, she let me find my way and never told me I wasn't good enough, never told me I was ‘OK but …’.
Instead she gave me responsibility and stepped back. She gave me back my self-belief by being a pair of steady hands with no agenda but to see this through with me. I remember walking into work after about a few weeks with her. Suddenly, I wasn't scared; I put one foot in front of the other and I started to slowly but surely walk on tottering footsteps, then walk steadily, then start to run, and eventually start to dance.
I owe this mentor so much; I don't think she will ever realise how amazing she is and how crucial she was in my eventually finishing my degree.
Midwifery is a work of heart, but sometimes circumstances are such that our hearts get damaged. I feel that at times there is a tendency to answer that damage with a cry that we must teach resilience, that we must teach students and colleges that we should be able to handle almost anything and keep a brave face.
I think more effective than resilience is kindness, patience and gentleness. In my worst moments, I had kindness poured over me from hearts steadier than my own. I had ears that heard me and allowed me to speak, and many people who were willing to tread a path with me. This, more than anything, helped me to survive, heal and ultimately thrive. I am stronger, not by my own might, but by the strength of those who held me up when I couldn't do it alone.