Birth in Glasgow, Princess Royal Maternity Hospital

When Nel and Jenn—two incredibly lovely humans—told me they were expecting a little one and asked if I’d consider being their birth photographer, I didn’t hesitate for a second. My answer was a heartfelt and resounding yes!

I’ve had the joy of knowing Nel and Jenn for several years now through our shared love of the Blues Dance community in Glasgow. Over time, I’ve watched their bond grow, full of laughter, warmth, and that kind of quiet, steady love that makes you feel lucky just to witness it. So when they shared the news that they were going to be parents, I was absolutely thrilled.

Before we dive into their story, I’d love to invite you to settle in—maybe with a warm cup of tea or your favourite cosy drink—and read along with an open heart.

But first, a note of respect and awareness: Nel is non-binary and uses they/them pronouns. Language matters, and so does inclusion. The world of parenthood still has a long way to go when it comes to embracing all families in all their beautiful forms. Telling stories like Nel and Jenn’s helps push that change forward. It reminds us that families come in every shade, shape, and identity—and each one deserves to be seen, heard, and honoured.

That’s what I strive for every time I pick up my camera: for everyone in front of my lens to feel respected, valued, and beautifully visible.

Now, let me take you with me to the beginning of their journey…

The months of preparation. 
In the months leading up to going on call, we carved out time to really connect and to get to know one another even better. We paused together—to soak in the anticipation, the quiet excitement, during their maternity session but also having moments over dinner to go over the birth plan from start to finish.

The plan was simple: I’d head over to their home once their baby decided it was time to come earthside. Due to a few technicalities, Nel and Jenn asked if I’d consider something a little different. With matching grins and a sparkle in their eyes, they asked, “Could you maybe help with the transfer to Princess Royal Maternity Hospital when the time comes? That way, you’re already there no matter what happens in every part of it!’’

We all burst out laughing. I told them, “Alright—but only if everyone understands that driving during labour is not exactly a luxury ride.” It was a true friend’s favour, and one I was genuinely happy to make. We agreed, and with that, the countdown began.

Now, if you know me, you know I like to be prepared. So I turned my trusty car, Coco, into the comfiest labour-mobile I could imagine. Think: a soft pillow with a protective pad (just in case), more pillows and blankets for cosiness, a discreet little container in case of any… well, sudden nausea, a stash of snacks, and of course—the perfect playlist on standby that had been curated by the both of them. Because when you’re transferring in labour, comfort, calm, and a bit of music magic go a long way.

And as always, I was officially on call—from 38 weeks to 42 weeks. That full month of readiness where my phone’s always charged, my camera bag sits by the door, and every plan is made with a whisper of “unless I get called to a birth.” And here’s my heartfelt apology to anyone who hitched a ride with me during that time—yes, that was indeed a protective pad on the seat, and yes, that little container in front of you was for potential nausea. You weren’t just in my car… you were in full birth transfer mode. Thank you for your understanding, your flexibility, and for not asking too many questions. Coco was ready—and so were we..

The Call (Or… Not Quite Yet)
There’s a unique kind of buzz that fills the days when you're on call. You go about your routine, but a little voice in your head keeps whispering: Could be today. Could be now. Every moment feels like a breath held just a little longer than usual.

One evening, my partner and I had just finished dinner and settled onto the sofa for some TV. My phone sat in front of me, screen up, always watching. Then it rang. My heart skipped. It was Nel.

I picked up quickly, excitement spilling out of me: “Hello?!”

On the other end, joyful voices. “We think… it’s starting! Don’t come over just yet, but consider this a friendly heads-up—tonight might be the night!”

I laughed and sent my excitement right back through the phone. “Alright, I’m ready. Just give me a ring when you feel things really start moving.”

I turned to my partner and said, “Well, better sneak in a nap, just in case it turns into an all-nighter.” I curled up on the sofa, finding that perfect in-between position where you’re alert but cosy enough to drift if your body allows.

That in-between time is such a strange place to be—full of joy, full of anticipation, and honestly, full of nervous energy. You know something big is about to happen, but not yet. Your number one job is to rest… but excitement doesn’t exactly make that easy.

Eventually, evening melted into night. I moved to bed, gear ready, phone on loud, heart tuned in. And then… I woke up to my alarm. Not a phone call.

A little surprised, I eased into the morning, made breakfast, tried to stay grounded. Hours passed. No word.

I sent Nel a little check-in text: Just thinking of you. I’m here when you need me. They replied saying they’d gone to the hospital out of concern but had been sent back home and told to take it easy.

So, we did.

Afternoon turned into evening. Evening into night. Then once again, night rolled into morning—and I was woken up by my alarm, not a call.

Then my phone rang; Nel.

They shared that Jenn had gone back to the hospital for a check-up. Things weren’t progressing yet, so Jenn had agreed to a membrane sweep—a procedure often used to help kickstart labour. Jenn had to stay for monitoring, but Nel had come home briefly to grab a few things.

That’s when they asked: “Would you mind coming over? Help me pack up, and then we’ll head back to the hospital together. We can check in with Jenn and see how she’s doing and if she feels ready to have you join us”

Of course, I said yes.

Soon I had a very giggly Nel sitting beside me in Coco, admiring all the touches that had turned my car into a mini labour-suite. “Coco was ready!,” I said with a smile, “even if we don’t need her in that way anymore.”

I dropped Nel off at the hospital and promised to wait in the car park until I got the green light to join them inside. They nodded and disappeared through the hospital doors.

And then I waited.

Honestly? I didn’t mind one bit. I got comfy, surrounded by snacks and pillows and anticipation. I was exactly where I needed to be. Ready for whenever this little one decided it was time.

Blink and You’ll Miss It

Minutes passed. Then moments. Then a buzz.

A message from Nel:
“We’re not quite ready to have you join us just yet. Nothing is really happening, so we think it’s best if you head home for now. We’ll call you when we’re ready.”

And I completely understood. We had talked about this long before the birth: stepping into a birth space requires total trust and full consent—every time. It can be offered, and it can be withdrawn, as it should be. So I nodded to the quiet space around me, packed up, and drove back home.

Once there, I made myself some lunch and settled in again. That familiar rhythm returned: rest, restore, be ready. I knew I’d need all the energy I could muster for what lay ahead, whenever it chose to unfold.

I sat. I ate. Time moved in slow motion.

Then—a call.
Nel.

I shot up and answered: “Hello?”

Their voice came fast and frantic: “Things are happening. Things are moving fast. Can you come NOW?!”

I was already running.

“Yes! I’ll be there in ten minutes!”

I grabbed my bag, threw on my shoes, and dashed out the door. My heart was pounding, my brain focused. I drove as fast—and as safely—as I possibly could, parked up, and bolted into the Labour Ward.

The urgency in Nel’s voice echoed in my ears. I didn’t stop to ask questions. I just knew: it was go time.

I sprinted through the hallways of the maternity hospital, jabbing the elevator button like a scene from a movie. As it climbed, I muttered under my breath, “Come on, come on, come on…”

The doors opened. I was already moving.

A midwife stood at the entrance to the ward. “Who are you?”

“Birth photographer,” I managed between breaths. “I’m with Nel and Jenn.”

She stepped aside. I flew into the room, tossed my bag in the corner, grabbed my camera, and switched gears—this was it.

And then—quiet magic.

I saw Jenn, glowing. Nel, beaming. A midwife at the end of the bed. And something in Jenn’s arms.

Jenn turned to me with the gentlest smile and said, “I’d like to introduce you to Robin.”

I turned to the midwife while removing my lens cap, adjusting my settings mid-breath: “Hi there—nice to meet you!”

Then back to Jenn. I lifted my camera… and froze.

There she was.
Robin. Tiny. Perfect. Already earthside. Cradled on her mum’s chest. The room was somehow both buzzing and utterly still.

I looked at Nel, who couldn’t stop smiling.

My jaw dropped. “Wait… THAT is Robin?!”

They both giggled. Apparently, things had progressed so quickly that Robin was nearly born in the elevator during a room change.

I looked at my watch. Twelve minutes since the call.

“Twelve minutes?!” I said, stunned.

We all laughed at the whirlwind timing, the absolute unpredictability of it all—and then the room softened. The laughter faded into awe as I began quietly capturing the moments unfolding before me.

There she was—Robin. Safe and sound. Resting on her mums’ chests. The golden hour of birth wrapped around them like a blanket. The placenta was yet to be born, but this little soul was already here, already so loved.

The Golden Hour

These are the moments I hold dearest—the ones that unfold quietly in the afterglow of birth.

The loving glances passed between new parents.
The soft, curious sounds of a tiny human discovering the world.
The placenta, born gently and examined with care.
The midwives tending, the baby weighed and checked.

And of course—the legendary tea and toast, devoured like it’s a five-star meal, because in that moment, it absolutely is.

It’s a time suspended. A soft lull between the storm and the stillness. A space where love settles in, where a family begins.

I moved gently through the room, capturing it all. The tiny fingers, the quiet smiles, the sense of something utterly ordinary and completely life-changing all at once.

Between the quiet and the awe, we laughed—still a little shocked by just how quickly everything had happened. One moment, anticipation. The next? A brand-new human in your arms.

And that’s the magic of birth. It rarely goes according to plan. It’s wild, unpredictable, and endlessly profound.

I feel endlessly grateful to have been invited into this story—to witness and document the beginning of a brand-new chapter for a now-family of three.

-While many beautiful moments were documented, only a selection is shared here out of respect for the family's privacy and consent.-

Would you also like your birth beautifully documented just like Nel & Jenn?