The Day Our Daughter Taught Me How to Stay Calm
We thought the delivery would go as planned, or at least we hoped it would.
We had done what we had to do. The hospital bag had been ready for weeks. She was ready with a selection of her favorite music. That early morning, we got at the maternity hospital tired but delighted, with a tense kind of excitement boiling up inside us. My wife was calm. I tried to be.
But the peace didn’t last long.
The nurses’ tone changed a little at first. They were remained polite and smiling, but they were now glancing at each other. The fetus monitor was picking up something odd. Our unborn daughter’s heart rate was too high. I didn’t fully understand what that meant at the time, but I could see that the doctor was anxious by the look on his face.
Then I found out that my wife’s heart rate was likewise really high. They said it was probably a reaction to stress. Her body was trying to go into labor, but something wasn’t right. Something wasn’t right.
Fear came over me like a thick, heavy cloud that I couldn’t get rid of.
The doctors acted quickly. They took her somewhere else. They let her breathe. They turned down the lights and spoke in low voices. But nothing worked. My wife and our baby’s heartbeats kept getting quicker. No one could figure out how to calm the invisible tempest that surrounded them both.
I stood there, holding her hand and stroking her forehead, promising her that everything would be fine. But I didn’t really believe it. I was really afraid.
It seemed like every minute lasted forever. I couldn’t quit hearing the monitors beep in ways I didn’t understand. The room was silent, but it wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind of stillness that happens just before anything goes wrong.
Then, something happened that I didn’t see coming.
A nurse suddenly stepped forward. Not the head nurse or the doctor on duty, but one of the calm, quiet people in the room. She looked at my wife with a calm authority and said, “Let’s do something.” It’s just the two of us, okay?
She took my wife’s hand and began to show her how to relax. Her voice went softer and softer, like a song for sleep. “Close your eyes…” Be aware of how you’re breathing… Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. “Feel your heart beat and picture it slowing down…”
I noticed my wife follow her speech. The stress in her body progressively went away with each breath. Her jaw, which had been tense, relaxed. She released my hand. The sharp edge of fear in her eyes changed into something else: trust.
And then something incredible happened.
The monitor began to change. Her heart was beating slower. And the baby’s heartbeat, which had been racing and crazy, began to calm down as well.
It only took a few minutes for the setting to feel different. The doctors saw it. The energy changed from a tense yearning to a calm focus.
And then, all of a sudden, it was time.
Our daughter is here.
She didn’t scream when she was born; instead, she let out a loud, steady cry, as if she had been waiting for the right time to join us. She was in great shape. Strong. Wonderful.
I held her tight, and for a little while, everything was still. No noise. Don’t be scared. Just awe.
What I Learned From That Moment
That day, I learned something I never thought I would learn in a hospital room.
It wasn’t the machines or the medications that made the difference. It was one peaceful thing. A single quiet voice. One nurse remembered a way she had learned years ago and decided to believe in its power.
That simple act of bringing my wife back to her breath and her core opened the door for change. It made me think that what we actually need in the middle of chaos is not more work or control, but serenity. Being there. It was a time to take a breath.
That moment has been on my mind a lot since then. Sometimes life gets too much for us. This is the time when it seems like everything is out of control. Worry starts to set in.
I understand now that we sometimes need to slow down to get the answers we need.
There are times when hope is most quiet.
And sometimes, the greatest answer is the one that isn’t too severe.
That day, I made a promise to myself that I would remember that lesson as a father, a partner, and a human. Even when things are hard, I will always choose to be patient, have faith, and be there.
We might be able to find the miracle we want just a breath away.
