February had always felt like the quiet pause before spring — a month of stillness, cold air, and hidden hopes. For months, I had circled the 25th on the calendar, the date marked as the expected arrival of our little one. But deep inside, I wished for something different. I wanted her to come on the 18th — a date that had lodged itself into my heart for reasons I couldn’t fully explain.
Every day leading up to it, I would talk to her, my little girl still growing safely inside me. I would whisper to her through the barrier of my skin, telling her gently, Come out on Saturday, the 18th, my litle one. I imagined her listening, understanding, even then. The thought comforted me, especially when the doctors explained that if she didn’t arrive naturally by the 20th, they would need to induce labor — something I desperately wanted to avoid. I wanted her arrival to be on her terms, and maybe, in some small way, on mine too.
On the night of the 17th, I felt different. There was a certain tension in the air, like the moment before a big storm or the pause before a curtain lifts. As midnight approached, the first contractions began — small at first, just whispers across my belly. I held my breath, counting the minutes, feeling their steady rhythm begin to build.
By then, the world outside was still grappling with the realities of COVID-19. Hospitals operated under strict protocols, visitors were limited, and the sense of isolation was real. But none of that mattered as much as the new life about to make her entrance. We gathered our hospital bags, carefully packed a week before, double-checked the essentials, and stepped out into the cold February night. The streets were nearly empty, the city asleep under a velvet sky, and it felt like we were the only two people in the world making our way to the hospital.
When we arrived, the procedures were in full swing. My husband needed to take a COVID test before he could join me. No special escorts, no warm welcomes — just instructions to head upstairs via the elevator. Alone, I pressed my hands against the cool wall for balance as another contraction gripped me, rising slowly towards the unknown.
The second floor, where the delivery rooms waited, was quiet, almost eerily so. A kind midwife, calm and efficient, greeted me. She quickly confirmed what I already knew in my bones: labor had begun. Her smile was steady, her hands reassuring. She didn’t just monitor me; she made a promise, one that would stick with me in the hours ahead. “I’m not going home until you give birth,” she said firmly, almost like a friend making a vow. Her shift was due to end at 6 a.m., but her presence stayed constant, unwavering, a true guardian through the longest night of my life.
Contractions became my new heartbeat, every few minutes a surge of tightening that stole my breath and filled my mind with questions. Could I do this? Would I be able to endure it? The thought of medical interventions—epidurals, cesareans—hovered at the edges of my mind, but I pushed them away. I wanted to trust my body, trust my baby.
When my husband finally joined me after his test results came back, I felt a wave of comfort wash over me. He didn’t whisper into my ear; he didn’t need to. His steady voice, speaking at a normal volume, was exactly what I needed to hear. “You can do it,” he said. “Push. You’re doing great.” In the midst of pain and uncertainty, his words became my focus. No theatrics, just simple truth and belief in me when I struggled to find it in myself.
As the hours stretched on, there were moments when doubt crept in. Moments when the contractions felt endless, when the exhaustion made my body tremble, when I thought maybe I couldn’t go any further. And in one of those moments, I did the only thing I could think to do. I spoke directly to her — the little soul I had been nurturing for so long. Please, I said silently, come out now, my baby. I pleaded with her, heart to heart, mother to daughter.
And she listened.
At exactly 4:20 a.m., with one final push, she arrived — strong, healthy, perfect. The midwife, true to her promise, was the one who caught her and placed her onto my chest. No fuss, no rushing, just the two of us and a new life beginning. She waited until the doctor came only afterward, just for the necessary checks and paperwork. In the most important moment, it was just me, my husband, and the midwife who had stood by me, unwavering.
The first feeling was pure, indescribable relief — a wave that washed over me, pulling all the pain and fear away. And then came the joy, an overwhelming rush that flooded every corner of my soul. She was here. She was real. She was ours.
Her skin was impossibly soft, her tiny hands curling instinctively against me. I could feel her breathing, could hear the smallest, sweetest sounds as she adjusted to the world outside my body. Tears filled my eyes as I held her, this little person I had dreamed of, talked to, wished for. Nothing else mattered anymore. The world could be falling apart outside those hospital walls, but inside, everything had come together in the most beautiful way.
The three days we spent in the hospital after her birth were a strange mix of exhaustion and wonder. They needed to keep her under observation, to make sure everything was fine, and so we stayed. It was just the three of us in that small hospital room, the hours blending into each other, each one teaching us something new.
We learned how to decipher her cries, how to swaddle her in a way that made her feel safe, how to feed her, burp her, comfort her. We learned the deep, aching tiredness that comes from sleepless nights, and the fierce, protective love that makes every lost hour worth it.
We learned to be a team.
My husband was there for every diaper change, every feeding, every moment when the uncertainty felt too big for me to carry alone. His hands were steady when mine were shaking. His voice was sure when I was second-guessing every little thing. Together, we navigated those early, foggy days, fumbling but never falling completely apart.
The pandemic meant no visitors could come to the hospital. No family waiting eagerly in the lobby, no friends dropping by with flowers or balloons. Instead, we met the world in quiet moments, sending photos to loved ones, sharing our joy through glowing screens. And maybe, in a way, it was better like that. We were able to build our own tiny world without outside noise, without distractions. We learned how to be a family — just us.
When it was finally time to leave, the cold February air greeted us like an old friend. We bundled her up carefully, every layer tucked just so, and carried her out into the world she had waited so long to meet.
February will never again just be a month on the calendar for us. It will always carry the echoes of that night — the contractions, the elevator ride, the midwife’s promise, the first cries, the first breath. It will always remind us of the strength we found inside ourselves, the courage we didn’t know we had, and the extraordinary love that bloomed in the middle of winter.
Our daughter came exactly when she was meant to — on the 18th, just as I had hoped and whispered and wished for all those nights before. She listened. And in doing so, she gave me the greatest gift of all: a reminder that sometimes, even the smallest prayers are heard.
Now, every February, when the air turns crisp and the snow falls silently outside, I will remember the night our lives changed forever. The night a little girl answered her Mama’s call — and the world became infinitely brighter.
