Where My Son Met Me

Ilyass’s birth didn’t begin with a rush to the hospital or a flurry of paperwork. It began in my own home, in my own robe, with Powerade on the nightstand and quiet conviction in my heart. No machines. No strangers. Just breath, prayer, and the steady presence of my midwife and husband. In that sacred space, I met my son—and a deeper version of myself.