Where My Son Met Me

My final homebirth feels like the right place to begin. It’s not just a story about labor and delivery—it’s a story about becoming. I am a mother, yes, but also a person, a writer, a woman shaped by faith, contradiction, and the quiet revolutions of everyday life. The birth of my son Ilyass, in the comfort of our home, marked a threshold—not only into motherhood again, but into a deeper understanding of myself.

Before I had children, I might have been considered self-centered. I don’t say that with shame, just honesty. My world revolved around my own ambitions, my own rhythms. But something shifted—radically and irreversibly—when I was confronted by the purity and vulnerability of my children. Their needs were immediate, unfiltered, and sacred. And in meeting those needs, I began to see the cracks in my own foundation. I realized that without empathy, care, and selflessness, the world couldn’t be healed. Not truly.

Ilyass’s birth didn’t just bring a baby into the world—it uncovered the growth I still needed to achieve. It reminded me that transformation isn’t always loud. Sometimes it happens in a quiet room, with soft lighting and steady breath. Sometimes it begins with a contraction. Sometimes it begins with a choice.

This is my birth story.

I actually had two of my three children at home, but we’ll save my daughter’s story for another day. Her entrance deserves its own chapter.

Ilyass was my third, and by then, I had learned to trust my body more. I had also learned to trust my voice—to ask questions, to advocate for myself, to say what I needed. That confidence didn’t come out of nowhere. It was shaped by experience, by contrast, by the memory of my first birth in a hospital setting.

To be clear, my hospital birth wasn’t traumatic. The staff was competent, and I was grateful for the care. But it was anxiety-inducing in ways I didn’t expect. I didn’t know what was normal, what was urgent, or what was just part of the process. The nurses would check on me and then disappear, leaving me with my thoughts, my pain, and a growing sense of uncertainty. My husband had to leave overnight due to a separate issue (a wild story for another time 😅), and I remember lying there, exhausted and overwhelmed, wondering if I was doing any of it “right.”

By the time I was pregnant with Ilyass, I knew I wanted something different. I wanted to feel grounded, not monitored. I wanted to feel held, not handled. I wanted to birth in a space that felt like mine.

Enter Katie, my midwife from Wonderfully Made Midwifery. She was everything I didn’t know I needed—calm, wise, and deeply respectful of my body and my choices. From our first meeting, I felt like I was being seen as a whole person, not just a patient.

Home birth was a revelation.

I labored in my own space, surrounded by familiar walls and the scent of my own kitchen. I could snack when I wanted. I drank Powerade and munched on crackers between contractions. I wore my own robe—no scratchy hospital gown, no awkward exposure. There were no beeping machines, no fluorescent lights, no strangers walking in and out of the room. Just me, my husband, and Katie. It was quiet. Intimate. Sacred.

I remember thinking how different it felt not to be on someone else’s clock. There was no pressure to dilate faster, no threat of interventions looming over me. I could move, breathe, pray, and labor in my own rhythm.

With my first birth, I remember the moment I started pushing. A small herd of nurses rushed in, cheering me on like I was running a marathon. I know they meant well, but it felt overwhelming—like I was performing instead of birthing.

With Ilyass, there was no performance. Just presence.

When he arrived, I held him immediately. No one whisked him away. No one interrupted that first sacred hour. He was placed on my chest, warm and slippery and perfect, and we just… breathed. Together. In our home.

I know home birth isn’t for everyone. It’s not recommended for high-risk pregnancies or certain medical conditions, and I would never suggest it as a one-size-fits-all solution. But for me—for us—it was exactly what we needed. I felt safe. I felt supported. And most importantly, I felt like I was allowed to be fully present for one of the most transformative moments of my life.

There’s something powerful about reclaiming birth as a personal, embodied experience. Not a procedure, not a spectacle, but a passage. Ilyass’s birth reminded me that motherhood doesn’t always begin with a monitor or a gown or a waiting room. Sometimes, it begins in your own bed, with your own breath, and a quiet kind of courage.