The Metamorphosis

There are days that shape us, moments that carve new paths into our hearts, and births that change us forever.

Five years ago today, on February 15th, I met my daughter for the first time. Though I had prepared, planned, and envisioned how it would go, birth, as always, had its own way of unfolding.

Photograph courtesy of Alysha Eileen Photography (2020)

The Beginning

Before the test confirmed it, I knew. There was a whisper in my bones, an ancient knowing that settled in before the second line ever appeared. My body softened into its purpose, growing round with possibility. My mind wove between certainty and surrender, arrogance and awe.

At 37 weeks, I was diagnosed with Intrahepatic Cholestasis of Pregnancy (ICP). Bile acids, meant to stay hidden in my liver, had begun to spill into my bloodstream, turning the simple act of existence into a nightly torment of relentless itching. This wasn’t discomfort; this was risk. Stillbirth. That was the whispered warning behind every conversation. The recommendation? Induction at 37 weeks.

So, on February 14th, we held a quiet ritual of normalcy—breakfast at White Spot, my husband and I, joined by my mother-in-law. My family had traveled from up north, waiting in the wings to hold me when the dust settled. No public announcements, no social updates—just us, holding the sacredness of her arrival close.

My husband took some teasing from friends for missing the Boots and Babes fundraiser in Vancouver that night. But what we were stepping into? It was beyond any event, beyond any celebration. We were on the threshold of something vast, something that would crack us open and stitch us back together entirely new.

The Sowing

Induction began at 1 PM with Cervidil, a small but mighty invitation to my body to soften, shorten, and prepare for what was to come. My cervix was 1 cm, hardly effaced. My baby, still high in my pelvis (and I expected that for not even being at my EDD yet!). My pregnancy had been shadowed by Hyperemesis Gravidarum—unrelenting nausea and vomiting that clung to me from the beginning. It did not spare me in labour. I carried it through the contractions, through the waves of effort. (Fact: when my placenta was born, HG left with it.)

Labour began slow, as all great journeys do. The shower became my solace, the warm water cascading over my back, washing away doubt, coaxing me deeper into the unfolding. The hours slipped by in a haze of motion and stillness, of breath and surrender. My waters were broken at 1 PM on February 15th, and at 2 PM, IV oxytocin was started—silently. I wouldn’t learn of this intervention until two years later.

There was a moment—a small but mighty fracture—that left its mark. A lesson written into my body’s memory. This is where my passion for birth stories, for how people feel in birth, was born. This is why I hold feeling, over unfolding, so closely.

Birth is a paradox. Power and vulnerability. Trust and surrender. It is the ultimate act of integrity—to listen to your team, to yourself, to your baby. To be clear. To be unwavering. To let go.

By 4 PM, the intensity had climbed to a precipice. I chose an epidural. Relief swept over me, softening the sharp edges, allowing my body to gather itself for the final climb. My husband and moms debated stepping out for dinner when I felt it—an unmistakable pressure, the shift in gravity that signaled her descent.

Around 6PM, I was fully open, waiting, letting her rotate, letting her find her way. By 7:04 PM, it was time.

Here I am, after the epidural took effect. The kindest and most supportive Doctor and and nurse came on shift just before pushing. They made a huge difference!

The Storm

Three hours. I pushed for three powerful hours!

I am still, to this day, so proud of myself. There is no comparison. No right or wrong. Just what was mine. What was ours. Nova was sunny-side up and asynclitic, her head tilted, her face turned toward my belly instead of my spine. She needed patience. She needed time. And so did I.

Each wave of effort was met with unwavering support, the voices in the room anchoring me, their hands steadying me. The exhaustion came like tides, pulling at my resolve, testing my endurance. And then—

The Arrival

At 10:04 PM on February 15th, 2020, my daughter, Novalee Faye, was born.

She was 8 lbs 8 oz of everything I never knew I needed. She came through the veil of labour with a voice strong enough to pierce the room, a cry that settled into my chest, into my bones, into the very fabric of me. She was placed on my chest, and time ceased.

She smelled like life itself. Like warmth and wonder, like the sun on the ocean, like the air after rain. Her fingers curled into my skin as if she had always known me. And in that moment, nothing else mattered.

I looked into her face, searching for the soul I had carried, and I found her. Familiar. Known. Mine.

Motherhood took shape in a single breath, in the space between that first cry and my own exhale. A transformation more profound than any I had ever known.

The placenta followed, but if I could go back, I would do that part differently. I would be patient. I would advocate. I would understand more about the third stage. Birth doesn’t end when the baby arrives—there is more to hold, more to honor, more to protect.

That night, she was born— and so was I.

That year, the doula in me born too.

Five Years Later

She is tenacity incarnate.

She embodies boldness and fierce love wrapped in a being that refuses to shrink.

She speaks with clarity and wisdom, knowing what she needs, knowing what she wants. She is patient in ways I never expected, and yet unyielding when it matters most. She is open—open to learning, to adventure, to life in all its messy, magical forms.

She is intelligence with a smart-ass mouth that I adore.

She is bubbly yet wild, fire and light intertwined, a force that refuses to be contained.

She teaches me still. Every single day.

Her birth shaped me—not just as her mother, but as a woman who understands both the beauty and the weight of birth. It taught me that even when we prepare, even when we know the system, birth remains wild, untamed, and complex.

And five years later, I am still learning from her.

Happy birthday my Novabean, you are so adored,

Love Mom.

Written by Grace Davidson.

The Birth of Nova