The Day Our World Changed: Carter’s Birth Story

On April 15th, the day we had waited for finally arrived. I was 40 weeks pregnant and scheduled to be induced that evening at 8:30 p.m. We were told to call the hospital an hour before our appointment to make sure a bed was available. When we called, we were told they’d need to delay us by an hour—too many babies were making their way into the world that night.

So we waited. Luke and I sat at our kitchen table, playing rummy, trying to distract ourselves while the minutes ticked by. But beneath the surface, we both knew: life as we knew it was about to change forever.

When it was finally time to leave, I looked at Luke as we pulled out of our driveway and he looked right back at me—and in that quiet, shared glance, we both knew. The next time we came home, it would be with our son in our arms.

I had been experiencing contractions for a couple of days already and had even gone into the hospital four days earlier, only to be sent home when they subsided. By the time we arrived at the hospital around 9:15 p.m., I was physically uncomfortable, emotionally exhausted, but mostly, I was ready. Ready to meet my rainbow baby. Ready to hold the life I had carried for nine long months, after a season of devastating loss.

The hospital was calm and quiet when we checked in. My nurse, Wendy, welcomed us with such warmth and care that she instantly felt like a safe space. Her gentle spirit and attentiveness would carry me through some of the most intense moments of my life.

They started me on a low dose of Pitocin to encourage contractions, though I’d already been having them. As the hours passed, they intensified—coming closer together, stronger, deeper. Each one took my breath away. It’s a pain that’s hard to describe—like your body is splitting open from the inside, and all you can do is focus on breathing through it. I labored naturally for five hours, supported every minute by Luke, my mom, and my best friend Kailey.

Luke was my rock—literally and emotionally. He applied counter pressure, whispered words of encouragement, reminded me that I was strong, and told me over and over how proud he was. In those moments, those words meant more than he’ll ever know. Between contractions, I’d sway, sit on the birth ball, or try to keep moving. Anything but stillness. Anything to manage the pain.

Eventually, at 6 cm dilated, I chose to get an epidural. Once it took effect, I was able to relax and finally rest—but only for a moment.

I was woken abruptly. My OB stood by my bed, telling me Carter’s heart rate was dropping. My room quickly filled with nurses and a quiet urgency filled the air. My heart sank.

They gave me medication and told me I’d be rushed in for an emergency c-section. In a blur, Luke was handed a smock, and I was wheeled down the hallway. Everything became sterile, bright, fast. The lights in the operating room were blinding. The air was cold. I remember the sharp smell of antiseptic, the doctors and nurses speaking in quick, clipped tones. It felt chaotic—but through it all, Luke never left my side.

During the procedure, I felt no pain—but every tug, every pull was deeply uncomfortable. It was as if I could feel my body being separated, layer by layer, as they worked to bring our son into the world. It was terrifying. I cried quietly as Luke held my hand and reminded me I wasn’t alone.

And then… 6:44 a.m.
The doctor called out, “Baby, 6:44 — I think he has red hair!”

Carter cried the moment he entered the world. That sound—his first breath, his tiny voice—brought me to tears instantly. He was here. Our rainbow baby. My son. The little soul we had prayed for, hoped for, and loved long before we ever met him.

Luke met him first. He cut the cord. Carter wrapped his tiny fingers around Luke’s, and then he was brought to me. I couldn’t fully hold him yet, still shaking from medication and surgery, but I was able to kiss his sweet face and feel the warmth of him against mine.

It was nothing like I had imagined—and everything I needed.

The hours that followed were blurry. I had intense shakes during golden hour and needed help holding him to my chest. But I was overwhelmed with gratitude. My son was here. He was safe. He was mine.

Although I originally envisioned a natural birth, I entered labor with an open heart and few expectations—and I’m so grateful I did. My c-section shaped me in ways I never expected. C-sections are not the “easy way out.” You lay on a table, arms outstretched, vulnerable and numb, feeling every sensation as your abdomen is cut open and your baby is pulled from the core of you. And afterward, each layer is carefully stitched back together while you wait—aching to meet your child. It’s raw. It’s humbling. It’s powerful.

I now have an immense respect for all mothers—for those who labor, for those who deliver naturally, for those who have cesareans, for all who walk the sacred path into motherhood. I experienced a little of both—natural labor and surgery—and I can confidently say: we are warriors.

Giving birth reshaped my understanding of strength, faith, and love. God’s design of a woman’s body is nothing short of miraculous. And the bond between a mother and her child… it begins long before the first breath.

Carter’s birth was not what I expected. But it was everything we needed.
It was beautiful. It was sacred. It was ours. It was a day I’ll never forget.