My estimated due date was October 2, 2025 — but as babies often do, my little one had his own timeline. At around 3:45 a.m. that morning, I woke up feeling… off. My husband had just left for work, needing to be on-site by 5:00 a.m., but fifteen minutes later, I called him back. “You need to come home,” I said. “I think I’m in labor.”

After getting up to use the bathroom for what felt like the millionth time, I noticed blood. My heart started racing. I called the maternity ward, spoke to the on-call OB, and was told to make my way to the hospital.

But in my new truest chill fashion, I decided to take a shower and blow-dry my hair. My hospital bag, my husband’s, and the baby’s diaper bag were already packed and in the car. All my husband needed to grab was the cooler full of snacks and drinks we’d prepped ahead of time.

I didn’t really have a birth plan—other than declining certain newborn vaccines right after birth and hoping things moved quickly. My doctors had warned me that first-time labors can last for hours, sometimes days. My sister-in-law, who’d given birth just seven weeks earlier, had been in labor for days. So, I braced for the long haul but still held onto hope for something shorter.

Because my husband had to return his work truck before coming home, my mom was the one to take me to the hospital. Usually, she’s the calmest, most level-headed person in a crisis—but that day, she was the definition of panicked. Every turn, every brake tap had me clutching the door handle. It was one of those “Jesus, please take the wheel” moments. Thankfully, the roads were quiet in the early morning hours, and we made it safely to the hospital.

We arrived just before 6:00 a.m. I got checked in, changed into a gown, and learned I was already 5 cm dilated. Then came the hardest part up to that point: getting an IV started. After eight painful attempts and an hour that felt like forever, a nurse finally painfully succeeded. My nerves were fried and I nearly went into a full blown panic attack.

By 7:00 a.m. I was moved to a labor and delivery room, and my husband arrived shortly after with snacks and pillows. I remained steady at 5 cm, unmedicated, and undecided about whether to get an epidural. For hours, I powered through contractions, grasping a birthing comb, moving around the room, and leaning on the gurney while my mom rubbed my back.

Finally, around 3:00 p.m., after reaching 8 cm and feeling completely spent, I decided to go for the epidural. Once the anesthesiologist administered it, it was like night and day. Nothing like I had imagined. Honestly, after the IV fiasco that morning, the epidural was a breeze. Maybe I had built it up to be worse than it was, but once it was in, I could finally breathe again—the pain melted away, and I could joke and relax a little.

The OB on call then came in to break my water, and for a moment, everything seemed fine—until she told me the baby had passed meconium inside. That meant the NICU team would have to be present at delivery, just in case. My stomach dropped. I tried to stay calm, but the room suddenly felt heavier, more urgent, another thing to worry about as I was also at risk of hemorrhaging due to the fibroid outside my uterus.

Then, around 6:30 p.m., another wave of stress hit: shift change. My nurse—the one who had been with me all day, who’d seen me through contractions and held me through the epidural—was leaving. She’d been so kind, and the thought of starting fresh with someone new right before pushing terrified me. But God was looking out for me, because the nurse who replaced her turned out to be an absolute angel.

In the shuffle of shift change, I suddenly spiked a fever of 103°F. My new nurse jumped into action without hesitation—placing ice packs under my arms, neck, and stomach to bring it down. Before too long, she looked me in the eye and said, “It’s time to push.”

But instead of excitement, I felt fear. After hours of labor, I wasn’t sure I was enough or capable. Thankfully, this nurse understood exactly what I needed in my moment of fear—not coddling, but a challenge. She locked eyes with me and gave me the push (no pun intended) I needed to rise to the occasion.

With my nurse’s encouragement, my husband’s steady presence and calm strength, and my mom’s quiet support, I started pushing with everything I had. My regular OB—who had cared for me throughout my pregnancy—arrived just as the baby began to crown.

After 54 minutes of pushing, at 8:14 p.m. on September 22, 2025, my beautiful baby boy entered the world.

He came out with his big almond eyes wide open and screaming—7 pounds, 7 ounces of pure perfection. They placed him on my chest, and time just…stopped. My husband and I looked at each other, both sobbing uncontrollably. In that moment, I felt a kind of joy I’d never known before—the closest I’ve ever come to heaven on Earth.

Unfortunately, our golden hour was cut short when my blood pressure spiked suddenly. The nurses quickly took the baby to be checked while they worked to get my numbers under control and sew me back together after getting a second degree tear. By the next day, I learned I’d developed postpartum preeclampsia and would need to stay an extra day for observation. The doctors explained everything, but honestly, I barely listened. I felt okay. After everything, I knew God had carried me this far, and I would be fine.

My baby was here—healthy, safe, and perfect—and that was all that mattered.

When I think back to that day, every detail—every contraction, every unexpected twist, every tear—is woven into one extraordinary story of strength and grace. It wasn’t a perfect or smooth labor, but it was ours. The fear, the laughter, the prayers, the quiet moments—all of it led to the most incredible gift I’ve ever received.

September 22, 2025 will always be the day I finally held my heart outside my body — the day I became “Mom.”