Becki Britt

Complicated. That word seems to follow me. Not that I consider myself complicated, but it’s not a simple life either. It took me almost 15 years before I was able to live an authentic life, true to myself. I'm a slow learner, Anna says, and I think she's right.

My name is Becki Britt. Becki H. Britt, to be exact (for those out there who are taking my name in vain.) I grew up Southern Baptist in southern Mississippi and obviously survived that, among other things. I went to college and fell in love, but not exactly the way everyone expected me to; her name was Anna. So, instead, I got married and made her a bridesmaid, because denial is an artform in the South. Then I moved away to California, then Germany. I was in Berlin when the wall came down. I was a Pier 1 assistant manager and a tour guide. Then I moved to the sandhills of North Carolina. I was a picture framer, a realtor, an office assistant for a construction company, a vegetarian cooking class instructor, a stepmother, a childbirth educator, a doula, and a lactation consultant. I gave birth to two beautiful, huge children, one in the hospital by c-section and the next, a vbac at home. I’ve suffered from depression as long as I can remember and the post-partum depressions were worse. I had a breakdown. I got divorced and I moved next door. Then I rekindled my first love and moved again. I fought an ugly custody battle, applied and was accepted at the most prestigious school in nurse-midwifery and had to decline because of the aforementioned custody dispute. I applied to a local university and moved again. The first phase of the program was nursing school crammed into one year. But was this enough? No. I got pregnant in the middle of this. I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl at home in the water. I suffered again from the debilitating pain of post-partum depression, but I survived.

Now I’m a nurse, and we just can’t say that in my house without snickering a bit. I work at a rural hospital in the newborn nursery. I never thought I’d be a nurse. I remember being told numerous times as a child, once after passing out from the blood in the sink from my own lost tooth, that I could never be in the medical field for my squeamishness. But to me, amniotic fluid, meconium and vernix just aren’t yucky. But phlegm, OMG, please don’t give me phlegm! I digress.

So here I am in Eastern North Carolina, with my partner Anna, my children, Cullen, 12, Molly 10, and Camille, 3. We have three dogs, one cat, and the surviving fish of the week.

Cullen lives at his Dad's most of the time because, well, he was the only dude in the house and that was getting a bit rough on him...fair enough. Molly is home schooled because of her ADHD. And Camille is getting bossier by the day...wonder where that comes from, eh?

And to this entire soliloquy I ask, “What was I thinking?”