The Sacred Return to Water [essay]

Summary : Explore the often-overlooked legacy of Black midwives as cultural guardians and spiritual healers—particularly in coastal communities where the ocean, moon, and ancestral knowledge converged. From water births and saltwater rituals to the use of herbs and moon cycles, these midwives created sacred pathways to life rooted in peace, purpose, and protection. And in the face of modern tribulations, the beach emerges not just as a place of rest—but of rebirth.

 

Midwives as Protectors of Portals

Midwives were never just birth workers. In Black coastal communities, they were the protectors of portals—guiding souls from the unseen world into breath, blood, and body. These women held more than life in their hands—they held memory, tradition, and spirit. In cottages near the sea, they worked with ancestral wisdom passed down from Africa and the Caribbean. They followed the tides and the moon, listening for divine timing. They knew when to catch life—and when to call the ancestors to protect it.

Midwives in Black communities—especially in coastal regions—were essential figures. They weren't simply assistants to birth; they were guardians of the threshold, understanding childbirth as a spiritual, emotional, and physical passage. Their presence offered continuity in a world that often sought to fracture Black family structures. These women ensured that babies were born in safety, not just physically, but spiritually too. And in that sacred care, they cultivated peace—for mother, child, and community.

They delivered babies near the shoreline, where the rhythm of the waves calmed contractions and soothed anxiety. They used herbs like chamomile, hibiscus, and plantain not only for their medicinal properties but also for spiritual cleansing. These midwives knew how to make healing teas, compresses for swelling, and sacred baths for mothers entering or emerging from labor. The moon’s cycles were part of their calendar—believed to help usher life forward with less resistance. Many mothers were encouraged to give birth on specific lunar phases for strength, clarity, or gentler labor.

They sang Psalms, spirituals, and ancestral prayers during labor, grounding the mother and invoking divine protection. These songs weren’t mere melodies; they were invocations of strength and surrender, bridging the gap between spirit and flesh. To be a midwife was to know the body, yes—but also the spirit. They were the original doulas, the original therapists, the original sacred space holders. And they created space for stillness and spiritual peace within one of life’s most intense experiences.

Some midwives were also mystics—known as seers, rootworkers, or conjure women. They blended Christianity with African cosmology and Indigenous Earth-based practices. They believed that water—especially ocean water—was not only cleansing but deeply spiritual. Their rituals drew on elemental wisdom, with the sea as a sacred partner.

Saltwater was often used to create protective circles around birthing beds, warding off negative energy and anchoring the space in safety. Seaweed wasn’t just washed ashore—it was gathered intentionally, then used to soothe tearing, swelling, and pain. The ocean breeze itself was considered part of the ritual—a way to blow away fear, grief, or spiritual interference. Spiritual baths with sweetgrass, basil, rosemary, or hyssop were used to cleanse trauma, prepare the womb, or honor those who had passed. These rituals made the birthing process more than biological—it became a ceremony of welcome and remembrance. It was a path to reclaiming calm in the face of chaos—a path to inner peace.

 

Misappropriation

But as powerful as these practices were, they were not protected. By the early 20th century, midwives were systematically pushed out of the birth narrative. Labeled as superstitious, primitive, or dangerous, Black midwives became targets of regulation and removal. Laws were passed to make home births illegal or medically discouraged. Hospital births were framed as modern, sterile, and superior—though this so-called progress came at a cost.

Western medicine, driven by control and profit, failed to respect cultural knowledge. It continues to fail Black women today. Black maternal mortality remains three to four times higher than that of white women. Black mothers report being ignored, silenced, and even endangered during hospital births. Pain is under-treated. Choices are overridden. Intuition is dismissed. The warmth and wisdom of the midwife was replaced by fluorescent lights, rushed appointments, and sterile protocols—leaving no room for peace.

Ironically, many of the very practices once demonized are now being rebranded as wellness trends. Yoni steaming, spiritual bathing, herbal teas, and moon rituals—these sacred tools of Black women’s health are now sold in spa packaging, often without context or credit. This appropriation not only erases the origin of these practices, but also distances Black communities from their own healing legacy.

Despite this history of erasure, a quiet resurgence is taking place. Black women are returning to the shore—literally and spiritually. They are reclaiming the ocean as a site of power, rest, and remembrance. Coastal spaces are once again being seen not just as vacation destinations, but as ancestral grounds. The sound of waves is once again a lullaby for labor.

Water births—long seen as unconventional in mainstream medicine—are rising in popularity among Black families. These births mimic the womb’s natural environment, reducing stress and encouraging gentle transitions for both mother and child. Saltwater, long recognized by midwives as sacred and healing, is now understood by modern science for its antibacterial and restorative properties. The cleanliness of the ocean isn’t just physical—it’s energetic. And in its vast stillness, it offers a profound sense of peace.

Black-led retreats and healing circles are incorporating coastal elements: ocean meditations, saltwater immersions, moonlit rituals, and shoreline journaling. Doulas and midwives are integrating ancestral knowledge into their care, reconnecting birth with legacy and lineage. Artists, writers, and community historians are preserving and sharing the stories of midwives and mystics—ensuring their work is no longer hidden.

This return to the water is not a trend. It’s a remembrance. A ritual of cultural repair. And above all, it’s a reclamation of peace—personal and collective.

As we witness this renaissance, it’s clear that the next generation of Black birth workers is stepping into their power. They are not just catching babies—they are restoring dignity, safety, and spirit to the birth experience. They are teaching us that to protect the portal is to honor life itself. And that every sacred entry into this world deserves protection—not just from harm, but from forgetting.

Today, we must ask: Who are the portal protectors among us now? How can we support them, learn from them, and remember the ones who came before?

Let us hold space for their work. Let us return to the water with reverence. Let us build a world where every Black birth is met with knowledge, warmth, and joy. Let us seek peace—not only in moments of meditation, but in how we live, birth, and remember.

Because every portal deserves a protector. And every protector deserves peace.

Finding Peace in the Water

The beach has long been a sanctuary for healing, clarity, and connection—especially in the Black experience. It’s where we go to grieve in silence and rejoice in stillness. For many, stepping into the ocean is like entering a sacred temple—each wave a sermon, each breeze a benediction.

Life brings trials. It brings grief, loss, injustice, and exhaustion. For generations, the beach has been a quiet refuge for Black people carrying the weight of this world. It is where we lay down our burdens. It is where we remember ourselves.

Finding peace at the beach is more than a moment of relaxation; it’s a reconnection. The sand reminds us that we are grounded. The sea tells us we are fluid. The sky above assures us we are held.

For many, the shoreline becomes a place of rebirth. After struggle, after heartbreak, after running empty—it is the sea that fills us back up. It is where our prayers rise with the tide and our fears recede into foam. There, in the hush between waves, we rediscover our breath. We reclaim the right to rest, reflect, and renew.

Many Black women, especially those carrying generational stress and trauma, are finding solace in the water. Whether it’s a ritual bath at dawn, barefoot walks along the tide, or breathwork by the shore—these moments create space for release.

The ocean is a mirror. It reflects who we are and what we carry. It doesn’t rush our healing. It holds us. It invites us back to ourselves, and to the wisdom our ancestors never forgot.

To return to the water is to say, “I remember.” It is to claim rest as a right and peace as a practice. It is to rise from our trials not hardened—but cleansed. Reborn.

 

A Final Word

In today’s world, where healthcare systems often fail to provide holistic care and peace of mind, returning to ancestral practices rooted in nature—especially those connected to the water—can offer a true form of healing. The message here is clear: Peace is not just found in the sterile environment of a hospital room or through the prescription of pills. True healing comes from listening to the body, trusting ancestral wisdom, and reclaiming spaces of spiritual refuge, like the shoreline.

As we continue to face ongoing societal struggles, from healthcare inequities to mental health crises, we must recognize that peace is not something to be sold or prescribed—it’s something to be rediscovered. For Black women, the journey to inner peace is one that can be paved by returning to the beaches, the water, and the ancient practices of those who came before us. It’s a rebellion against a system that has stripped us of peace and a reclamation of the wisdom that has long been ours.