The Birth of Beau Allan

Photos by Katey Mac Photography

The Birth That Brought Me Home
A Story for Beau on His 4th Birthday

It was a spring morning—the kind where the sunlight spills softly across the kitchen floor and everything feels a little too quiet, a little too sacred. Nova, still small with a toddler’s bounce in her step, had cuddled up softly that morning. We took her out for breakfast that morning. Our last outing as a family of three. I remember staring at her across the table, wondering how on earth my heart would make room for another.

I was scheduled to be induced that day. May 12, 2021.

The same way I had been with Nova.

But this time—this time was different.

Not just because it was my second birth. Not just because I had done more research or felt “more ready.” It was different because I had made a decision to take up space.

After a first birth that left me aching with questions I couldn’t voice, I knew I needed more than just a better outcome. I needed to feel held. I needed to feel like I mattered—not just the baby, but me. And so I did something that felt both wildly indulgent and deeply wise: I hired a doula. And a birth photographer. I called it an investment. Some people raised eyebrows. I pulled from my own savings. It didn’t matter. This was my last baby—and I was going to do it differently.

But to really understand this story, you have to go back.

Back to September, when I lost my dad suddenly and the world turned sideways. Just days later, I found out I was pregnant with Beau. My grief was so heavy, it sat on my chest like a stone. It’s hard to admit, but I couldn’t feel excited—not yet. I didn’t have space to celebrate while my heart was broken. I needed to grieve first. And slowly, gently, I did.

Pregnancy was kinder to me this time. No hyperemesis. No gestational diabetes. A touch of cholestasis, but manageable.

Through it all, Beau stayed with me. I whispered to him in the dark. I played music on my belly. I promised him I was finding my way back.

And on that May day, as I lay in the hospital being monitored before induction, the fluorescent lights hummed above me and the fear crept in quietly. Memories of Nova’s birth bubbled up—unspoken, uninvited. I kept them to myself.

At 1:00 PM, they placed the first dose of prostaglandin.
We waited. Hours passed. Nothing much happened.
At 8:00 PM, they checked again—2 cm. We agreed to a second gel.

That’s when things shifted.

Within minutes, contractions were under two minutes apart. I climbed into the bathtub while Trent played my favourite music. He massaged my hips and ran his fingers through my hair. He knew what I needed without me asking—holding me not just physically, but emotionally. Present. Grounded. Unwavering.

When Katey arrived around 10:00 PM, the energy in the room shifted again. She was calm, intuitive, and knew just when to step in and when to stand back. She gently pressed a cool cloth to my forehead, and reminded me—without words—that I was safe.

The hospital room melted away. The machines faded. I was in my body. I was in labour.

By midnight, the OB on call broke my waters. I was 4 cm and before Katey had arrived I felt pushed to get an epidural because ‘I had one last time, and it’s now or never’ So the anesthesiologist made their appearance somewhere in this time.

We danced in bed between positions, used the peanut ball, and let the music fill the quiet. Trent never left my side. It was soft. It was intimate. It was sacred.

Then—suddenly—everything felt different in the room, yet I felt okay.

Beau’s heart rate started to dip on the monitors. Nurses whispered. I watched the shift in their eyes. I heard words like “cord,” “oxygen,” “ call the OR.” The calm room bristled with urgency. Even though I still felt intuitively okay, I was suddenly immersed into their world again. I was told I had 20 minutes before a cesarean would be called.

And then, right on cue—my body roared back to life.

I felt pressure. Real pressure. I said, “He’s coming.” The nurse hesitated and dismissed me. Katey leaned in. She knew. She believed me.

Within seconds, the room filled with bodies rushing to prepare to catch my boy. Gowns. Gloves. Lights. I was told to hold him in until the OB was ready. I looked at Katey. I looked at Trent. And then—half a push later—he was here.

At 1:25 AM, Beau Allan was born.

From 1 cm to birth in 12.5 hours.
From 4 to 10 cm in just one.
Fetal Ejection Reflex and 2 intentional pushes.
Eight pounds of son.
A lifetime of love.

I remember looking at him and feeling my heart expand beyond anything I knew was possible. I remember the tears on Trent’s face. I remember giving Katey the honour of cutting the cord, and the way it felt like the most full-circle kind of love.

And then, quietly, something else happened.
I forgave myself.

I forgave myself for the first birth. For the doubt. For the pressure I put on my own healing. I whispered an apology to myself I hadn’t even known I needed. And in that moment, I knew: I was whole. I was strong. I had done it.

This was my last baby.
And I had birthed him into the world with softness, strength, and presence.
No fear. No regret. Just love.

So to my first baby, Novalee—thank you for teaching me that love grows in the unknown.
And to my second baby, Beau—thank you for bringing me home to myself.
To Trent—there are no words. You are my partner in every sense of the word.
To Katey—your presence shaped our story in ways you’ll never fully know.

And to every parent out there preparing to meet their baby:
Hire the doula.
Get the photos.
Fill the bath tub.
Invest in the moment you’ll never forget.

Because it might just change everything.

Happy 4th birthday, Beau Allan.
You were worth every wave, every tear, every moment.
And I’m so glad you’re here.