Claire Tonti, honours us all with her new song, released on Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, and her debut album ‘Matrescence’.
By Claire Tonti
When I went into labour at 30, after what had been a relatively easy pregnancy, I thought I had motherhood figured out. As a primary school teacher, I felt prepared for what lay ahead. I didn’t have much of a birth plan—just an exercise ball, a yoga mat, and a playlist featuring Michael Bublé.
I had imagined myself as an earth mother, easing through the process of birth and parenthood. But when the contractions began, and I started to hum and sing to soothe myself, the midwife immediately told me to be quiet, to keep it down, that I’d exhaust myself.
I obeyed, just as I’d always done, slipping back into the role of the good girl, the people pleaser.
Sixteen hours later, my son was ripped from my body with forceps, leaving me with severe tears that required immediate surgery. The first hours of his life were spent without me, as I was whisked away to the operating room. No one had prepared me for this—the closest I’ve ever been to death, and the overwhelming blood, exhaustion, and isolation that followed.
Breastfeeding was a struggle, and despite my best efforts, it just didn’t work. I was met with shame. And the advice to keep trying, to feed every two hours, express, and pump on a never-ending rotation. Sleep became a distant memory. I was thrust into the wild, relentless world of mothering. Far removed from the peaceful experience I had envisioned.
“MY BODY DIDN’T FEEL LIKE MINE ANYMORE, AND MY BRAIN WAS DIFFERENT … WHERE HAD I GONE?”
“HAPPENS ALL THE TIME”
The love I felt for my son was all-consuming, but so was the terror and the enormity of caring for him. The early months were much harder than I could have imagined. My body didn’t feel like mine anymore. And my brain was different. My senses were heightened, and anxiety loomed large. I didn’t even know how to dress myself anymore. Where had I gone?
A few years later, I fell pregnant again. At 10 weeks, I was told there was no heartbeat. I was sent home to wait for a D&C the following week, with vague sympathy and the reassurance that it would feel like a bad period. But that night, I miscarried at home, in one of the most violent and overwhelming experiences of my life. It was nothing like a bad period; it was labor.
Later, I discovered I had miscarried triplets. When the ambulance arrived at 3am, their kindness couldn’t mask the phrase that stuck with me, “happens all the time.” This earth-shattering, traumatic event was treated as routine. Not a big deal. I was given no advice on how to process my miscarriage, no ritual to mark my grief, no way to navigate this loss. I was left alone with my pain.
Now, I know there are so many ways other cultures hold space for this experience, allowing women to feel seen and understood. But at that moment, I felt completely abandoned by a medical system that didn’t seem to care.
PARENTING THROUGH A PANDEMIC
Eventually, I felt strong enough to try again. And just as I was planning for my daughter’s birth, the pandemic hit. What followed was a nightmare many parents will recognise—homeschooling, working, and caring for a newborn while navigating one of the world’s longest lockdowns. I remember standing in parks with other parents, sneakily drinking wine from keep cups while our kids slid down grass hills on cardboard because the playgrounds were closed.
By the start of 2022, I hit rock bottom. I had run from myself for so long, trying to be the person everyone needed me to be, that I didn’t recognise myself anymore. Then I got long COVID and couldn’t get out of bed. I couldn’t even watch TV because the light was too bright. But in that stillness, something unexpected happened. I attended my first women’s circle and was given a journal to write down something I wanted to call into my life. I wrote down music. The next night, I started to sing again, finding solace in songwriting. It was like lightning had struck.
THE MAKING OF MATRESCENCE
What began as one song turned into 11 over the course of 2022—songs about love, loss, birth trauma, and identity.
When the songs were finished, I searched for a title for my album and stumbled upon a word that changed everything. Matrescence—the process of becoming a mother, equivalent in size and scope to adolescence. By calling my album “Matrescence,” I found a network of women and activists who deeply understood what I had been through—a metamorphosis of self.
I wasn’t broken; I was experiencing a natural process.
In February 2023, I launched my album titled Matrescence, having not sung in front of an audience for 15 years. At the end of the show, the audience gave me a standing ovation, and I burst into tears. I never saw this plot twist coming.
Those songs became friends that carried me through the darkest days of my life. Through them, I found healing and discovered a word that validated my experience. I found self-compassion and my voice. And I realised that what I thought was just my struggle was actually shared by many others.
F*CK THE VILLAGE, I WANT A TRIBE
1 in 3 Australian women experience birth trauma, and up to 110,000 Australian women will experience a miscarriage each year. This can take a lasting toll on their physical and mental health, especially for the 1–2 percent who have three or more miscarriages in a row. Women who experience miscarriage often report a lack of information, poor access to follow-up care, and limited referral to counseling. They also face stigma and shame, compounded by a medical system that doesn’t meet their needs.
My new song, The Beast, released on Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day (October 15), speaks to this lack of care, the dismissal of women’s pain, and the grief, love, and loss that accompany these experiences.
We are mothering in a broken system with a lack of support, unrealistic expectations, and without the community we need. As I once heard a mother say, “F*ck the village. I want a tribe!” That sentiment captures everything.
Matrescence reminds us that we are not separate from nature but a part of it—creatures reliant on each other. We need more connection, compassion, knowledge, and love.
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