From Glencoe to Home: A Glasgow Home Birth Story

Birth Photography Scotland

When Rebekah and James first got in touch with me, one thing was immediately clear: these two love each other deeply. At the very heart of their family lives a shared devotion to… adventure!

They met in the US and, only recently, made the bold move across the Atlantic to begin a new chapter in Scotland. With an amazing wee toddler already by their side and another little soul on the way, they are stepping into yet another unknown together. As they shared their story with me, they spoke about navigating pregnancy care in a new country, noticing the differences between the US and Scottish systems, and embracing the cultural shifts with open hearts and curiosity. It felt fitting; this beautiful family doesn’t shy away from the unfamiliar; they welcome it.

Their excitement for this baby was tangible. And when it came time to mark this fleeting, transformative season, they knew they wanted to do it in a way that felt unmistakably them. Adventurous. Intentional. And of course full of love!

Into the Mist: A Family on the Move

So instead of “just” a maternity photoshoot in a park or studio, they chose something far more aligned with their spirit: an adventure into Glencoe. At 34 weeks pregnant. With a toddler in tow. Surrounded by mist, mountains, and the kind of wild beauty Scotland does so well.

Their toddler strode confidently ahead in the cutest red wellies, leading the way as only toddlers do: while mum and dad followed, beautifully dressed and completely unfazed by a little climb, the mud underfoot, the rain in the air, or the cold on their cheeks. When we stood together in the heart of Glencoe, I could truly see it: this is a family who lives and breathes adventure. Laughing, smiling, fully present with one another, wrapped up in the joy of simply being together.

As a birth photographer, moments like these remind me that the story doesn’t begin with birth. It begins long before, in the way families move through the world, in how they honour transition, and in how they step forward together.

November Stillness

As the world slowly quiets as we step into November, there’s a gentle shift in the air. Blankets come out. Hot cocoa is poured. Evenings grow softer, slower, wrapped in family and cosiness. And within that stillness, this family settles into a calm, patient waiting: until their little one decides it’s time to arrive.

Rebekah has mentioned previously that her toddler made quite an early entrance into the world, so she wouldn’t be surprised if this baby followed suit. I make sure my bags are packed and ready to go, just in case. And then… we wait.

The days roll on as they always do, ordinary on the surface, yet carrying that quiet hum underneath. That familiar little niggle in the back of your mind: Could today be the day? Time passes, and she texts me:

“Well… she’s definitely staying a bit longer than I thought! But that’s totally okay. This is the time of year when we have so many birthdays in our family, so I’m curious to see who this little one will end up sharing hers with!”

One evening, I’m at home winding down after a day of work, settling in with a warm bowl of apple crumble, when my phone lights up again.

“Remember when I said you hopefully wouldn’t be on call much longer? It might be showtime tonight. I’ve been having contractions for the past ten hours, and they’re starting to pick up. We’ll call you when we need you!”

That familiar rush hits instantly: the mix of excitement and instant focus. It could be tonight. I quickly finish my dessert and decide to head to bed early, just in case this night turns out to be a little more adventurous than originally planned.

I manage to get some rest, and then, at 5:15 am, my phone rings.

“Things are moving. Can you come along?”

I jump out of bed, pull on my clothes, and head straight for the door. As I move as fast as I can, my partner runs outside to scrape the ice from the car: teamwork in its purest form!

Holding Space

I arrive at their home just before 6 am, and the midwives from the Glasgow Home Birth team are pulling up at the same time. Familiar faces! We exchange quiet hellos before gently stepping inside, all of us tuned in to the question that lingers in the air: What is unfolding here?

Their living room has been lovingly transformed. What is usually a cosy, beautiful family space now looks a little like a scene from Dexter: plastic carefully covering every piece of white furniture. James laughs as he explains, “Well, at least this way she can move wherever she wants.” The birth pool is set up, warm and waiting. Rebekah sits on the floor, leaning against the sofa, riding each wave of contraction as it comes.

I quietly find my place in the room, setting down my equipment, clipping my cameras onto my harness. 

Rebekah is inward, focused deeply on her body. James comes to sit beside her, steady and present. The midwives finish setting up, and soon a familiar calm settles over the room: that particular stillness that comes with waiting, watching, listening.

Time in a birth space is a strange thing. It moves, yet somehow stands still. You enter a bubble where clocks lose their meaning, where only breath and instinct seem to matter.

After a few hours, the midwives gently ask Rebekah if they may check in and see how things are progressing. She consents, and soon some challenging news makes its way into the room. Things are happening, but not quite fully yet. From here, the midwives explain, labour could shift quickly… or active labour might still be some way off.

The disappointment is visible and completely understandable. After nearly 41 weeks, the excitement of finally feeling this is it carries so much hope. Wanting to meet your baby, so close now, only to be asked to wait a little longer.

To give Rebekah and James space, the midwives and I quietly move into the kitchen. A cup of tea is made, a small ritual of care, allowing the living room to return to them, just in case rest and quiet coax things forward.

But their little girl, it seems, is still quite content where she is.

The midwives reassure Rebekah that they can return at any moment: five minutes, a few hours, or even days from now. Rebekah looks over at me and asks if I might stay a little longer, just in case. And so I do. The camera comes off. We settle into conversation, warm and gentle, as the light outside begins to shift and morning slowly arrives.

As the sun rises, time softly returns to the room. Eventually, we agree that rest is the best thing for all of us, so that when this wee one truly decides her birthday, we’ll be ready.

When Waiting Gets Heavy

And so, a new part of the adventure begins: a challenging one. More waiting, just when you thought the waiting was finally over.

I speak with Rebekah, and it’s clear she’s right in the thick of it. I gently reassure her that this is so common, sharing stories of others whose births I’ve had the honour of witnessing and documenting, reminders that this in-between space, as hard as it is, is still part of the journey. The stories help… but only so much. Because when you’re living it, the waiting can feel endless.

Time stretches again, but this time it carries a different weight. You don’t quite dare to leave the house, what if today is the day? You know you need rest, yet your body stays alert, caught between exhaustion and anticipation. There’s also the quiet stress humming in the background: the care you’ve so carefully arranged, the plans made around this moment, all of it suddenly feels fragile if the days continue to pass.

A few more days slip by, and this wee one is still very content, staying exactly where she is.

I ask Rebekah if I might help in the only way I truly know how. I invite her to the studio: just her. It’s close to home. A gentle change of scenery. A chance to shift the mindset, even slightly. After all, she is now the most pregnant she’s ever been, how remarkable is that?

I offer her another maternity session, simply because. No expectations. No pressure. Just a moment to slow down. Without a partner or a toddler. Just space for herself.

She says yes.

And so, once again, we sit together, holding space. We take photographs quietly, intentionally. Rebekah is given time, peace and stillness to reconnect with her body, with this pregnancy, with everything it has carried so far. A pause within the waiting. A reminder that even here, there is something worth honouring.

The Night Labour Arrives

Days pass, and I can’t help but keep my fingers crossed that everything will unfold for Rebekah and James exactly as they’ve dreamed. Evenings turn into mornings, mornings into evenings, the alarm goes off, the day passes, repeat.

It goes on long enough that I almost start to joke with myself: “This might just be it… She’s forever pregnant now!”

Then, suddenly, my phone flashes.

"Hi! No active labour yet! But my waters just broke!"

I leap from the sofa, my heart racing with sheer excitement and joy. Yes! She did it! Relief washes over me: not for me, but for her. I text back: “You know the drill — you’ve got this. I’m here and ready whenever you want me.” She responds that they’ll call when they need me.

The hours crawl by. I sit, tense with anticipation, on the edge of my seat: tonight might finally be the night. I want this for them, so badly.

Then another text: “Less than 5 minutes apart, lasting about 1 minute.” I check in, asking if she wants me to join. She hesitates, still worried about “making the wrong call” after the previous time. I reassure her: I’d rather drive back and forth forty times than miss this moment. I can always wait outside if needed.

Her answer comes quickly: “Yeah… they’re getting quite intense! Can you come?”

Within three minutes, I’m in the car, racing over. I arrive at 21:36, step inside, and immediately find my spot in the living room: the perfect corner in the now-familiar “Dexter scene.” Rebekah is at the centre of the room again, moving with each contraction. She looks up, a smile breaking across her face: “It’s time. I know it.”

I settle nearby, holding space while James moves between the room and the kitchen, carrying hot pots of water. Rebekah had apparently been experiencing waves of contractions all day, and James had been keeping the birth pool warm: so diligently, in fact, that the boiler gave out. Now, when it was truly needed, we were back to boiling hot water by the potful. The beauty of home birth!

Poetry in Motion

Shortly after, Rebekah decides it feels right to call the midwives. Once that choice is made, she settles into a beautiful rhythm, meeting each contraction as it comes. Watching her move inward, fully attuned to her body, it feels as though she enters her own quiet bubble: while James is hard at work keeping the pool warm, never straying far from her side.

And by close, I truly mean close.

In so many moments, James reminded me of a real-life superhero: arms wrapped around his wife, holding her steady, protecting her, keeping her safe. He whispers soft, reassuring words, his hands moving gently across her skin, grounding her through every wave.

It is honestly poetry, unfolding right in front of me.

Rebekah shifts from sitting to lying on the floor, and James follows her down without hesitation. The scene feels almost timeless, like a Renaissance painting come to life, raw and reverent all at once.

By now, the midwives have arrived, and Rebekah makes it clear that she wants to get into the pool. James jumps back into action, working tirelessly to get everything just right. He heads into the kitchen to try the hose again, while I remain in the living room.

What follows feels like slow motion.

As the water pressure builds, the hose, not actually attached to the pool, suddenly begins to rise. Before I fully register what’s happening, it launches itself across the room, spraying water everywhere. I lunge forward, somehow managing to keep my cameras out of harm’s way as I push the hose back under the water.

Rebekah comes out of a contraction and softly asks, “Why… why am I wet?”

James re-enters the room, panic written across his face, and then: we all laugh. Everything is okay. Just a little wetter than planned.

Soon, the pool is finally ready. Rebekah steps in, her face softening instantly with relief: fully held now by warmth. James returns to his superhero role, and once again, the room settles into calm, comfort, and quiet focus.

As we give them space, Rebekah’s sounds begin to change: deeper, more instinctive. The midwives exchange a look, then glance at me. It might not be long now. Suddenly, a small amount of blood appears, and the midwife becomes immediately alert, asking Rebekah to give everything she has with the next contraction.

And she does.

The moments that follow move impossibly fast and achingly slow all at once. Rebekah reaches down between her legs and lifts her own daughter up, her amniotic membrane still intact. She looks straight at James. James looks back at her.

Power. Love. Strength.

So much unfolding in a single breath.

And then they look down together, at their daughter. Here. Finally. Earthside. Safe and sound. On her perfect birthday date, at 1 am in the morning. 

Holding Steady Through the Shift

There is a pocket of beautiful time in the pool, where everything feels suspended. They take her in slowly: every tiny feature, every sound, every breath. Utterly mesmerised by the incredible little wonder in her arms. 

Gently, the midwives ask Rebekah if she would be willing to move out of the pool so they can make sure everything is well. As she is carefully helped onto the sofa, all of the “Dexter-fying” of the living room does exactly what it was meant to do.

Curled together on the sofa, the midwives begin their checks. Rebekah consents to oxytocin, and with firm, purposeful abdominal massage, the placenta is soon born too. But as the massage continues, the energy in the room subtly shifts. One of the midwives voices concern: her uterus may be inverted, which would mean a transfer to the hospital.

I look up and see James go pale, his face draining of colour. Rebekah, calm but alert, begins asking clear questions: what does this mean, and what needs to happen next?

I step quietly toward James, asking if he knows where their hospital bags are, gently explaining what is about to unfold. Then I return to Rebekah, who is still on the sofa, holding her daughter close, while the midwives prepare for transfer and make the call for an ambulance.

I often say that in moments like these, you are human first, photographer second. So I kneel near her, speaking softly, checking in, reminding her what an incredible job she has done, and asking if there is anything at all I can do.

She looks at me and asks if, even though her wee one is now here, I can come with them to the hospital.

Of course I do. Without hesitation.

As the midwives return to the living room, I turn my focus back to James: making sure he has his jacket, gently explaining that the room is about to become busy and loud, and that everything is going to move quickly due to the urgent care. I remind him to breathe: this time not for his wife through contractions, but for himself, to stay present as things shift so suddenly. I tell him where I’ll be, and that I won’t leave until we know everything is okay.

When the ambulance crew arrives, one of the first responders turns to me and asks, “What’s the situation?”

“Ah — sorry,” I reply, “I’m just the photographer.”
The midwife is right there.

From that moment on, everything centres around safety. I step outside to prepare to follow the ambulance. I watch as Rebekah is wheeled out, James close behind her, holding their daughter, eyes wide. I squeeze his arm and say, “I’m right behind you, I’ll see you soon.”

Driving behind an ambulance with blue lights flashing is never what you want after witnessing so much beauty. But health and safety always come first.

We arrive at the hospital almost at the same time. I park quickly and run toward the entrance: closed. Another entrance: closed. And another. Closed again. I message James to tell him I’m trying my best to get inside, just as soon as I can find a door that’s actually open.

I spot a familiar ambulance crew member and ask for help. They smile apologetically. “Of course, everything’s locked at night. We’ll take you in.”

Once inside, a midwife kindly asks me to wait in the hallway while they assess and decide on the next steps. So I sit. In the quiet hallway. I check the time: 4am. I let James and Rebekah know I’m just a door away.

Half an hour later, the doors open and James steps out.
“It wasn’t as bad as they first thought,” he says. “Everything’s okay. You can come in now.”

Inside, I find Rebekah sitting up in bed, bright-eyed, holding her daughter. The first thing she says is, “Can I go home now?”

I laugh: she is, indeed, okay.

I take a few more photographs, quietly, before letting them rest and recover. It wasn’t the ending they imagined, but it was a safe one, and that is everything.

I drive home feeling warm and settled. Another tiny wonder has arrived in the world.

A heartfelt thank you to Rebekah and James for trusting me to document the story of their daughter’s arrival.

You can follow Rebekah on her own social media channels right here: @Rebekaknellie

To read Rebekah’s point of view, click here(to follow)

-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 Rebekah & James?