“In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer. And that makes me happy. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger, something better, pushing right back”. —Albert Camus

Saturday, January 3rd 2026

It seems fitting my epiphany occurred—staring into drive—through taillights. A chilly thousand yard beam, with gift card in hand. The hospital kitchen was closed for the night, and we hadn’t eaten yet. It’s then I realized, after the chaos of the day—a single moment can wipe away a year of misery. Those three words that I could barely say, “it’s a girl” somehow set the world right.

Ashley and I came into the hospital in the early hours of the morning to be induced at 41 weeks. Unfortunately, being induced was not part of our birth plan (neither was The Pioneer Woman cooking show). The past two pregnancies were natural with almost no intervention.

So, to arrive at the hospital with no labor signs, was a strange and anxiety inducing event. Ashley was very emotional after over a week of attempting to induce. She was exhausted both mentally & physically. So many questions floated around our room. Why isn’t the baby coming out? Is this the right decision? Why couldn’t she do this naturally?

She felt entirely defeated, pacing back and forth with an IV pole.

The hours of waiting culminated into what I can only describe as a baptism by birthing fluid.

Of all the noises echoing out of the unit—Ashley’s cries, the nurses rushing and doctor dictating, the HGTV program, Home Town Takeover—it was the audible splash Scout made, when she came into this world, that stuck with me. It happened so fast the doctor caught her with one hand. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced anything so ephemeral yet incredibly harrowing. “These saltwater eroded lanai posts might put us over budget!”

The truth is, I thought about turning the TV off, but I couldn’t find the remote—I couldn’t find the call button either. As I stuck my head out the door, a nurse on the unit heard Ashley’s cries and ran into the room. “Move that IV Tim!”, she ordered—rushing to get the bed liner on.“If we tear down this wall, we’ll make the whole front of the house open to this fantastic ocean view.” The TV had been on all day, waiting as Pitocin dripped. Ashley must have yoga ball bounced a hundred miles—at one point, pausing and looking like a stoic Buddha.

The morning paced into mid afternoon—with almost no changes—slowly upping the Pitocin—and waiting. It didn’t seem like anything was going to get this baby to come out—then Splash—followed by a cry—cut the cord—hand the baby to mom.

At the first signs of labor—I barely shook off my rubber couch revelry before the chaos began. I was gearing myself up for another hour maybe two, three—watching helplessly as she writhed in agony. I don’t think any of us thought Ashley would go so fast. In fact, our main nurse, (whom we later nominated for a daisy award), was worried Ashley wouldn’t give birth during her shift. She was tending to another patient when she heard Ashley’s screams. In that moment, all the medical professionals acted without hesitation—going above and beyond. Thankfully the doctor was still at the hospital making rounds. He told his patient in another room, “I should probably go check on that scream”, he later recollected.

As bodies & instrument tables flooded the room, Ashley’s cries became animalistic—wailing over the chaos of bloodied gloves, tangled wires, and IV lines. “I hope these weren’t your favorite socks.”, the doctor joked.

I felt like a proper photojournalist—thrown into the fray. Adrenaline pulsing—instincts kick in—thankfully overwhelming thoughts and anxieties of what could go wrong. You always think you have time. You always think you’re prepared—but you never are. I sat my video camera on the bedside table to help, it was recording, but I never picked it back up. Luckily my rangefinder was hanging around my neck.

The doctor’s hands moved expertly—suctioning airways while simultaneously inspecting, wiping, clamping, and handing me a pair of scissors without even looking—eyes always on baby. Scout came out all purple white—left arm and head first.

There was no time to help her through the birth canal—and so what followed was what seemed like an hour of stitches. There was a fear that Ashley may need to be put under, in order to retrieve the placenta. But those fears soon passed—as Scout brought us the good luck we’d been needing all this time. “Our contractor was a no show, but don’t your parents have experience tiling their bathroom? Even the doctor noted our “Home & Garden” marathon—as he squinted and sewed.

What happened next was like a strange dream. I think Ashley had an out of body experience, floating in a sea of agony & euphoria. In the hours and days to follow, we kept repeating the story over and over—like lyrics to a song—questioning ourselves, “Did that really happen?”.

“I like this backsplash, the broken lines break up the monotony, and the gold in between reminds me of kintsugi.”

In that dull January night, I drove back to the hospital, eyes aching from stress—suckin’ on a chilly dog. I thought about the long winter ahead, the sleepless nights, the stress of bringing home a newborn—like a constant throbbing ball in your throat. Then I thought about Camus’ invincible summer. How on the other side of struggle, pain, heartache & darkness—there is an indomitable joy, there is a light to hang high, if we choose to find it.

Wipe away from my eyes
This gravel of nightmares
These callouses from days
Drunken, snared, and contorted
Wipe away
With valiant blood stained hands
So I can see
It was all just a bad dream