A Transformative, In-Caul Home Birth: Welcoming Our Third Baby
I m writing about the birth of our third baby—a little boy—who was born at home on March 31st, 2025, at 12:09 a.m. He weighed 8 pounds, 12.5 ounces and was 22 inches long. He was born in caul, which means he was still in the amniotic sac when he came into the world, a rare and symbolic entrance we’ll never forget. We’re still getting to know him, and we’re hoping he tells us his name soon.
This was our third home birth, and I’d love to share it with you—not just the physical experience, but the emotional, spiritual, and even ancestral journey that brought us here. I hope this story inspires other women and families who are considering natural birth or are curious about what it can be like to fully trust the body’s wisdom.
My firstborn, Hunter, was born precipitously—less than a two-hour labor—and arrived before our birth team even got there. We caught this insane moment in a selfie video of our baby’s head out in our bathtub just daddy & I. I was so calm in the video, but it was the rush of oxytocin and know that birth was almost over! That birth was so intense that my brain couldn’t catch up to my body. Contractions started & they couldn’t stop. It triggered PTSD and left me with a deep respect for birth, but also some lingering fear. My second, our baby girl Harper, was born in the same tub in a more textbook five-hour labor that felt redemptive—like I got to reclaim something. And a true romantic experience between my husband and I. It was beautiful empowering &really intense. Still, going into my third birth, I was surprised to feel a deep resistance. I wasn’t scared in the traditional sense, but I was resistant to going through that intensity of birth again.
The weekend of his birth, I kept having stop-and-go contractions. They’d come on strong for 30 to 60 minutes and then disappear. This happened three or four times. In the midst of it, I went to the beach by myself and just sat, watching the waves crash, journaling about my other births and what I hoped to feel this time. It was the first time I really carved out quiet, intentional space with this baby, and I talked to him about how I wanted his entrance to be calm, gentle, and full of connection. I spent time journaling, processing, and writing letters to this baby, asking for his birth to feel peaceful and transformative. Those were the two words I clung to.
On Sunday night, I fell asleep with my daughter and my husband fell asleep with Hunter. We both woke up around 9:30 p.m. I had that familiar cramping-tightening sensation, but I was in denial—it had been happening all weekend. My husband, however, always knows. He can sense it from my sounds, my movements, my breath. While I’m stuck in people-pleaser mode not wanting to “bother” the birth team too early, he was quietly updating them. Our birth photographer and videographer, Sierra Rose, arrived around 10:30 p.m., and from then on it was just us—me and my husband—laboring together in our living room with candles lit, the same porcelain bathtub I’d birthed my other two in nearby.
That tub is so meaningful to us. It came from a home we rented in Los Angeles when Hunter was born. When we moved, we replaced it with an identical one because I just knew—I needed this sentimental piece and would build a house one day and install this tub! If I had more babies wanted to birth all my babies in it as well. It’s not ideal for space, but it’s beautiful, and it holds so much memory.
The contractions were sporadic—sometimes a minute apart, sometimes longer—but then I started getting hot, like really hot, and I needed fresh air. We stepped outside and I suddenly started making those low grunting sounds I make when pushing. I looked at my husband and said, “I am getting the urge to push” He let the birth team know right away. They arrived fast, filled the tub, covered the couch in plastic, and got everything ready.
Once in the tub, I immediately went into a squat, pressing my back against the porcelain, facing my husband. The fire was going behind him, the light flickering on his face. I started pushing, but it felt different—I couldn’t feel where the baby was, which was disorienting. With Harper, I could track her through the birth canal. This time, I felt like I was pushing with no progress. I even told everyone, “I think I’m stalling.”
My midwife checked and said, “No, he’s right there—and your water hasn’t broken.” Suddenly, it all made sense. He was still in the amniotic sac. I reached down and could feel it myself, which gave me hope.
One of the most beautiful surprises of this birth happened just before the baby came. About 20 minutes before delivery, Hunter woke up. He wandered into the living room and climbed into Daddy’s arms—right in front of me. The image of my firstborn holding his dad as I was birthing our third child was surreal. It cracked my heart wide open.
The pushes were intense—hellish, even. I felt desperate. I was begging the baby to please come soon because I didn’t feel like I could handle much more. But in between the waves, I would drop into this still, euphoric place. I remember smiling for no reason, even laughing. It must’ve been the oxytocin, but it felt like I was in a dream—memories of early motherhood flashing before me. Holding Hunter. Dancing with my husband. It truly felt like I was being reborn, too. Like old trauma loops were being completed, or at least loosened. It felt like a ceremony, a journey.
One part that surprised me was how much music became a part of this experience. I’m not someone who’s usually obsessed with playlists, but a few days before labor, I felt this deep call to make one. I added songs that were sentimental, poetic, even meditative. Some of them were from a therapeutic journey I did about a year ago.
During that journey, the very first vivid experience I had was with my hands on my stomach. I felt my womb speak: “You will have a third baby when you are healed.” I remember thinking, Maybe someday, but I had no idea I’d get pregnant that very summer. In fact, I was confused heading into this birth because I didn’t feel “healed.” But now, looking back, I see how this birth was the healing. As I leaned into my husband and one of those meaningful songs came on, it actually resolved a visual I had during that journey—where we were trying to dance but couldn’t sync as I was held down by pain & fear. Suddenly, in labor, we were dancing together literally in the moment that same song came on that’s created the initial visual of our block. Here &now we were dancing. It felt sacred & complete.
Our little boy had ventured away giving me some meaningful time with my husband. And then, with a few final, powerful pushes, he came. Our little boy was born in caul, lifted up by my husband and placed on my chest. The sac broke naturally as he emerged, and my husband gently peeled it off his head. It was blissful and peaceful and sacred. He didn’t cry right away—just looked up with those deep, soulful eyes. I gave a huge smile and my husband kissed me and held me and it was the most empowering, joy-filled moment.
Soon after, Hunter leaned in, wide-eyed, and wanted to show the baby his favorite crocodile stuffy. Moments later, Harper woke up organically and wandered into the room. It was like the universe aligned. Both of our children got to be part of this sacred moment—not the whole labor, but just enough. They watched the baby in awe, and then Hunter said, “Mama, I want to come in the water.”So both kids climbed in, and we all just revered. I was still in that blissful la-la land, but I’ll never forget the magic of being in the water with all of them. It was exactly what I had hoped for.
After the birth, I got out of the tub and sat on the couch to deliver the placenta while our little one latched and nursed. Then we transitioned into our bedroom—a room that tells its own story.
This baby was conceived during a once-in-a-lifetime trip. My husband and I finally took a vacation without the kids and traveled across Europe. Somewhere between Paris and Venice, on the Belmond Orient Express—an elegant, restored 1920s train that felt like something out of The Great Gatsby—our third baby was conceived. It was 26 hours of magic. Inspired by that memory, we turned our bedroom into a space that feels like that train—deep blues, golds, worn leather, antique trunks. It’s a family nest, a room for adventure and nostalgia all in one.
In that room, we did our cord burning ceremony. It’s something we’ve done with each child—hovering two candles over a handmade box to slowly burn through the cord instead of clamping. It gives us time to pause, to reflect, to thank the placenta, to thank my body, and to fully welcome this new soul. Hunter participated. So did our dog, Fox. It was a full-circle family moment.
This birth felt like a ceremony, a transformation, and a true homecoming. I’m still integrating all that it brought up and all that it healed. We’re taking our time getting to know this baby. And we’re listening closely, hoping he tells us his name soon.
I also want to take a moment to express the deepest gratitude for my husband. He is truly the most grounding, steady, and supportive partner I could ever ask for. Through each of our births, and especially this one, he has shown up not only physically—holding me, supporting my weight, being my anchor—but also emotionally and spiritually. He doesn’t just support natural birth; he believes in it. He believes in me. The way he held space, stayed present, and moved with me through every wave is something I’ll carry in my heart forever. And to witness him caring for our children—holding Hunter as I birthed, helping them into the tub to meet their sibling, and being fully present for this sacred moment—was breathtaking. He is the calm in the center of our family, and I am endlessly grateful for him.
This birth, like each of my births, has changed me. It deepened my reverence for the sacredness of bringing life into the world and reminded me of the wisdom our bodies hold. I share this story not because I think home birth is the only way—but because I hope it opens hearts and minds to what’s possible when we’re supported, informed, and deeply in tune with ourselves.
I’m so grateful for modern medicine and the life-saving interventions available when they’re truly needed. But I also believe with every fiber of my being that birth doesn’t have to be feared. It can be powerful. It can be gentle. It can be beautiful, even in its intensity.
My hope is that more women, more families, get to experience birth in a way that feels empowering—whether at home, in a birth center, or in a hospital. That they are met with respect, compassion, and a belief in their innate strength. That they are encouraged to ask questions, to prepare with intention, and to follow their intuition.
I feel so much passion for this subject—not just because I’ve lived it, but because I believe it can shift the way we bring life into the world. Birth is not just a means to an end—it’s a rite of passage. And when we honor it as such, we don’t just welcome babies—we welcome mothers, fathers, siblings, and families into a new chapter with reverence and love.
Thank you for reading our story.
