I gave birth to my daughter, Devany, on December 31st, 2020—the last baby delivered at our local medical center. That date alone carries a profound, almost sacred weight in my heart. Two years earlier, my older brother had passed away in a tragic ATV accident. His loss is one I’m still learning to process. We hadn’t been on the best terms, and the guilt and regrets I carry feel like a quiet shadow that follows me. My brother was born on December 31st, 1977, and though I’m not religious, I’ve always believed in signs. I can’t shake the feeling that he was sending me a signal that day, letting me know he was near.
Even before my induction, scheduled for the night before, fate seemed to weave its little hints. Another mother went into full labor ahead of me, and as we waited, a song played on the radio—“Lady” by Brett Young. It was a song I had been singing to my daughter in the car every day. Other times I’d been searching for signs, Garth Brooks—my brother’s favorite—would play, and I would feel him close. That day, the universe seemed to whisper that he was there, sharing this moment with me.
My labor itself was surprisingly swift. I had already passed my due date by a week—41 weeks and one day—when I was admitted at 8 a.m. The process began, and I couldn’t help but feel a mix of excitement and anxiety. This was my first child, and with the pandemic in full swing, only my boyfriend could be there for support. I longed for my sister’s presence—she is the sun to my moon, especially having grown up without a mom—and I wished my father could have been there to hold her first. But those moments were stolen from us. Most of my appointments had been solo journeys, and the only other time my boyfriend had been in a sonogram room was at 16 weeks. Still, we were ready to meet our sweet Devi.
The induction began with a balloon catheter, which surprisingly popped out within hours as I went to the bathroom. My panic subsided when the nurses reassured me that it meant we were officially at 4 cm—progress. I had arrived at just 1 cm, and they explained the balloon sometimes takes up to twelve hours to work. The hours that followed were a whirlwind. I faced my internal fear of needles with the epidural, knowing the pain radiating down my hips and legs made it necessary. By 7 p.m., my OBGYN, Kelly—the sweetest and most encouraging woman—broke my water, and the real intensity began.
My day nurse, Natalie, kept me comfortable, and as shifts changed, another remarkable nurse, Lynn, joined us. Her no-nonsense attitude centered entirely on my safe delivery. Alongside her, two other nurses supported me through the pushing process—one reminding me when to push, the other holding my leg. Lynn watched over me like a guardian angel, also caring for my boyfriend, who hadn’t eaten and was turning pale with a headache. She gently guided him to drink water while keeping me focused. The scariest moment came when my baby’s heart monitor briefly failed, filling the room with urgency. In the doggy position, tears streaming, I breathed through the fear, clinging to strength I didn’t know I had.
Finally, the moment to push arrived. Lynn coached me with precision—holding, tilting, pushing, breathing. Chewing gum to manage my indigestion, I pushed with every ounce of me, and at 9:01 p.m.—on my brother’s birthday—my daughter slipped into the world and onto my chest. One more minute, and she would have shared his exact birth time. The next hours blurred with stitching, examinations, and a check from a NICU attending for a small bump on her head—nothing serious, just from passing through my pelvis.
January 1st was her father’s birthday, and we spent the day in recovery. We absorbed all the information provided by our pediatrician, watched TV—mostly the Food Network and a lot of Guy Fieri—and began adjusting to our new rhythm. I was eager to return home, worried about my cat and longing for my own space. My boyfriend rested when he could but woke often to hold Devi skin-to-skin. By 11 p.m., we were cleared to leave, the car seat strapped securely, ready for our first ride home.
The next days brought challenges we hadn’t anticipated. My colostrum was insufficient, and I hadn’t been given pectin. We spent an entire day struggling with latching—painful for both of us—before deciding to supplement with formula. Despite my initial worry, Devi took to it beautifully. Slowly, my milk came in, and while we continued some formula, I learned lessons the hard way. Devi became constipated for three days, and when she finally passed on January 9th, the relief and joy were overwhelming. By the next day, her umbilical stump had fallen off, another small victory on our new journey.
Motherhood isn’t just about the baby. The first few days tested me physically and emotionally—my body took time to recover, my emotions ran high, and I learned to lean on the powerful women around me: my sister, my daughter’s grandmother and great-grandmother, even my cousin. Their support reminded me that I have a tribe, even when my stubbornness makes me forget. Practical lessons—witch hazel for stinging, lanolin for cracked nipples, sitz baths, naps, asking questions—became my survival toolkit. I learned to embrace formula without guilt, to dance in the shower, to take pride in small household accomplishments, and to trust my instincts.
For now, I am soaking up every moment: the cuddles, the little leg crosses, the expressions that light up her face. I’ve waited a long time to become a mom, and I’ve never been happier. Motherhood is imperfect, exhausting, and beautiful, but in trusting myself and reaching out when needed, I know we are exactly where we’re meant to be. Trust your instincts, momma—you’ve got this.
