YOU are the expert on you. I’m just here to help.

Hi! I’m Joëlle

I completed my DONA approved training at Bastyr University where I studied birth doula care, childbirth education, and breastfeeding/chestfeeding support.

I believe learning is a lifelong process. In addition to childbirth education, I’m endlessly curious about psychology, herbalism, nutrition, interior design, dance, yoga, painting, and even woodworking—though my dream of renovating our kitchen myself may be a bit ambitious.

My philosophy as a birth doula is rooted in our human need for connection and community—the village. Birth is not a single sacred moment, but a transformative journey that begins the moment you learn you’re pregnant and continues as you grow into parenthood. It is powerful, deeply vulnerable, and deserving of reverence, compassion, and care.

Special insight

What led Joëlle to birth work?

My experiences shape how and why I serve, but they are mine to carry. Your journey remains fully your own.

Burnout

Before COVID, I was deep in my “boss” era. I was using my degree, building a successful corporate career, managing side projects, and maintaining a full social life. From the outside, it looked like I had it all together.

Then, almost overnight, all of it disappeared. The loss hit hard, and so did the depression that followed. I realized how much of my identity—and my sense of worth—had been tied to what I could produce. Without that constant productivity, I felt like a failure.

That season forced me to ask some difficult but necessary questions: What does success really mean? What makes me happy? What makes me worthwhile? In many ways, it was the beginning of a long process of rediscovering who I was beyond what I accomplished.

Birth

In the midst of the chaos of 2020, I met the person who would become my greatest source of steadiness. There was just one complication: he lived in rural North Dakota. Since I had been laid off, moving there made practical sense—what was meant to be temporary simply lasted longer than expected.

As time went on, we decided to start our family there, far from my own family and community in the Pacific Northwest. I was without my village. My friends and family were far away, and my husband often worked long hours, seven days a week. It was a sacrifice, but one I was willing to make in order to build the life we wanted.

When I became pregnant, I threw myself into preparing for birth. I found the right OB, hired a doula, attended pelvic floor physical therapy, saw a chiropractor, adjusted my nutrition, read the books, and built the best support team I could. Much of that preparation happened in relative isolation, and it wasn’t easy—but I was deeply proud of the work I had done.

And then birth unfolded in its own way, as it often does. Very little went according to plan. Yet even in the unexpected, I walked away feeling incredibly proud of myself, my strength, and all that I had accomplished.

Postpartum

People are talking more openly about birth trauma, which is an important and long-overdue shift. While my birth was intense and unfolded very differently than I had planned, it wasn’t the birth itself that left the deepest mark. It was what came after.

At the time of labor, both my son and I had an infection, which meant he needed to remain in the NICU for several days. My husband had to return to work hours away, while I stayed behind, sleeping alone beside my son in the NICU.

Those early days were physically and emotionally exhausting. Life quickly became a cycle of breastfeeding, pumping, and waiting. I had little time to eat, shower, or rest. My hands were raw from constant scrubbing. I was healing from birth while trying to care for a hospitalized newborn, often feeling invisible within a system focused—understandably—on him. While my son was receiving excellent medical care, there were moments when I felt less like a person and more like a means to an end.

When we were finally discharged, I was relieved to leave the hospital. But returning home brought its own challenges. My husband was back to working long hours, and after my mom returned home, most days were spent alone with a newborn in an unfamiliar place. When she came back to visit, she recognized how much I was struggling and helped me make the decision to return to Washington, where I could be more fully held by the people who loved me.

Community

Even after moving back home, I still felt lonely. I was finally closer to my family and friends, but they were busy with work and their own lives. And honestly, I wasn’t the same person anymore. I was a mother. I was exhausted. I couldn’t show up in the ways I used to, and not everyone had the time or capacity to meet me where I was. Just being near the people I loved didn’t automatically mean I felt supported.

Becoming a parent completely changed how I see the world—and what I believe we owe each other. It brought me back to something deeply human: our lives are meant to overlap. We’re meant to care for one another, to step in when someone is carrying more than they can hold alone. When everyone is stretched thin and focused only on getting through the day, that kind of care can be hard to find. But when someone is truly supported, that support has a ripple effect.

That realization shaped so much of who I am today. It’s what led me to birth work and continues to guide how I care for others. I’m here because I believe every parent deserves to feel held, seen, and genuinely supported—and because showing up for one another is how we build the village so many of us are longing for.

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