Home Birth in Largs | Birth Photography Story of Baby #4

There’s a special kind of thrill that bubbles up every time someone reaches out asking about birth photography. It’s not just about marking a date in the calendar — it’s the feeling of stepping into one of the most transformative, powerful chapters of a family’s life. The anticipation, the emotion, the sheer raw beauty of birth... and then the quiet (and not-so-quiet!) joy of the little one finally arriving. I feel it every single time.

So when Emily messaged me, I felt that familiar spark of excitement. She was absolutely glowing as she told me she was expecting baby number four. Right away, on our very first call, she said something that stuck with me:
“I think this will be our last addition to the family. I’ve always dreamt of having birth photos... it’s now or never.”

I could hear the emotion in her voice — this was the last piece about to be welcomed into their beautiful family.

We chatted more about what she envisioned, and then decided that I’d come by their home in Largs for a coffee. It was partly to check the drive and get familiar with the space, but also to connect in real life.

A few days later, I made the trip. And what a drive it was! The kind that makes you want to pull over every few miles just to soak in the scenery — rolling green hills, glistening lochs, and that golden Scottish light that never quite translates in photos.

But nothing — nothing — compared to the warmth that greeted me when I walked into Emily and Daniel’s home.

You know those homes that instantly feel like a hug? Where the kids are bouncing through the hallways, the kettle’s already on, and laughter lives in the corners? That was their house. I was greeted like an old friend — by both Emily and Daniel and their gorgeous kids — and I could instantly feel the love that stitched them all together.

Over coffee and easy conversation, Emily and Daniel shared their hopes for the birth, their values, and why this moment mattered so deeply to them. I sat there listening, smiling, and already picturing the story I’d get to document with my camera.

By the time I left, I didn’t need convincing. My heart had already said yes.

A Pause 

We planned a maternity session in the studio — a little celebration of this season of waiting. We wanted to document not just the bump, but the calm before the whirlwind, the anticipation, and the beauty of a mother standing on the edge of something life-changing.

Emily arrived with her whole crew — her three little ones trailing behind her like full of energy and giggles. The studio quickly filled with noise and movement and joy. There’s something so grounding about watching two parents laugh while wrangling little shoes, doling out snacks, and answering five questions at once. It’s a kind of magic,really.

The kids made themselves right at home, running wild through the cosy corners of the studio — tumbling, giggling, and playing in that beautiful, chaotic way only siblings can. Daniel kept a gentle eye on them, letting their energy unfold freely. After a while, he rounded them up and headed out, giving Emily the gift of a rare moment of calm — just her, the baby, and the quiet.

It was like a gentle exhale.

She sat in the soft light of the studio, her hands resting naturally on her bump, her expression tender — that glow that people always talk about? It was real. She smiled, a little sheepishly, and said,
“I don’t get moments like this very often... let alone in the very near future!”

We both laughed because we knew — her world was about to grow even louder, fuller, and more beautifully chaotic. But in that moment, she had stillness.

We talked more about her birth plans. She told me how strongly she felt about having a home birth. She wanted it to be slow, intuitive, and safe — not just for her, but for the whole family. 

As I clicked the shutter, capturing her in that quiet, glowing bubble, that familiar feeling returned — the deep privilege and quiet thrill of being invited into moments as intimate and meaningful as this.

The Waiting Game
It felt like I blinked twice and suddenly it was time to go on call for this amazing family. Bags packed, camera batteries charged, lenses cleaned — everything ready. And then the waiting began.

Emily and I had spoken often about how much this birth meant to her — how important it was that I be there to capture it. But there was a very real concern hanging in the air: Would there be time?

This was her fourth baby. The distance between us wasn’t insignificant. And we all knew that fourth babies can sometimes make their entrance like a lightning bolt — fast, wild, and without much warning.

I had promised Emily, sincerely, that I’d do everything in my power to make it.

During the on-call time, my partner and I decided to go camping at the beautiful coast of Largs one of the weekends; I sent Emily a message:
“If baby decides to come this weekend, I’m literally five minutes away!”. Of course — in true baby fashion — nothing happened that weekend. 

A full week passed.

Then one evening, I was curled up on the sofa, deeply engrossed in some forgettable TV show, when my phone lit up. A message from Daniel:
“We think the time is here, could you please come over?”

Adrenaline surged through me. I was out the door in seconds. The drive to Largs was familiar by now, but under the dark sky, it took on a new intensity. No streetlights. Roads twisting and turning like ribbons through the hills. I kept my focus steady, whispering a little mantra with each breath:
“You’ve got this, Emily. I’m so nearly there.”

I pulled up, grabbed my gear, and took one long, grounding breath before stepping inside.

The house was aglow. Soft fairy lights twinkled through the living room, the birth pool was set up and waiting, and gentle music played in the background. It was a true birth oasis.

Emily greeted me with the biggest smile, calm and happy. Daniel stood nearby, tea in hand, holding the space with quiet strength. The midwife from the Ayrshire Homebirth Team was there too — a familiar face I’d worked with before, and one I was so happy to see again.

Emily rubbed her bump gently and said with a little laugh,
“I think… things have slowed down a bit. But I’m so glad you’re here!”

So we settled into the rhythm of waiting. Watching. Listening. Letting the night unfold.

After a while, Emily stood and said cheerfully,
“Last time, a walk really helped get things going. I think we’ll head out for a little wander.”

It was freezing outside — classic Scottish chill — but Emily and Daniel bundled up and stepped into the night air together. As soon as the door clicked behind them, I turned to the midwife and asked,
“What do you think?”

We exchanged thoughts, quietly and gently. We both sensed that perhaps what Emily needed most right now wasn’t our presence — but space. Her home back to herself. The freedom to move, rest, and let her body do what it needed to do without the quiet pressure of waiting eyes.

When they returned, Emily gently admitted that not much had changed. Together, the midwife and I carefully broached the idea:
Maybe tonight wasn’t the night. And that was okay.

We reassured her there was no pressure — no clock ticking. The midwife offered,
“I’m only 30 minutes away. And if I leave and things pick up again, I’ll turn around in a heartbeat.”

I nodded in agreement, echoing the plan.

But then Emily looked at me with wide, earnest eyes.
“But Marieke… you’re much further away. And no offense to the midwives — I’ll be okay without them — but I really want you here.”

My heart melted.

Right there, I made a decision.
“Remember last weekend when I was camping in Largs?”
She nodded.
“I’m going to do that again tonight. I’ll get some rest, just five minutes away. That way, if things pick up, I’m here. Not an hour away.”

I saw the relief wash over her immediately.
“Okay then,” she smiled. “So everyone is nearby?”
“Everyone’s nearby,” I confirmed. “Now you can get some rest knowing all is well.”

She nodded, peaceful now. “Alright then… I’m going to try and sleep.”

With that, she made her way upstairs. I quietly packed up my gear and helped the midwife gather her supplies.

Outside, the cold wrapped around me as I headed back to the car. I always keep a sleeping bag in the boot, just for moments like this — in-between moments, when birth asks us to wait. I found a quiet spot, parked up, curled into the backseat with my sleeping bag, and kept my phone right beside me.

Because maybe… just maybe…
Tonight would be the night.

Diane, of the Ayrshire Homebirth Team

The Cold and the Quiet

I curled up in the back seat of my car, wrapped in my sleeping bag, trying to get some rest. But sleep was light and restless — my senses on high alert. The sound of a boat mast clinking in the wind, footsteps crunching nearby, the occasional gust rattling the windows. I’d drift off for a bit, then wake, check my phone, and try again.

Hours passed like that, until suddenly it was 6am — and freezing. For a while, I’d been surprisingly comfortable — adrenaline and a good sleeping bag had done their job — but as the hours passed, the chill crept into the car. That sharp kind of cold that settles in your bones. I gave in and sat up, rubbing warmth into my hands, trying to get my thoughts straight.

No message. No call. Silence.

I decided to send her a message:
“I hope everything is going well over there! Since I haven’t heard, I really hope that both of you are fast asleep. I’m going to turn home to get some proper rest. Know that I will be an hour away again. Rest well! ”

Leaving felt like a tough call, but the right one. If labor picked up again, I wanted to be ready — fully present and well-rested.

I drove back to Glasgow, thawed out in a hot shower, reassured my partner all was well, and climbed into bed with my phone beside me — just in case.

Amazingly, I woke up hours later on my own. No call. No buzz. Just quiet.

Later that day, I messaged Emily to check in. She said nothing had changed and gently apologised for the false alarm. I smiled and told her, as I always do:
I’d rather come out for a false start than miss the real thing. Every time.

Things returned to normal for the moment. I worked, rested, and waited — phone close by, ready for the call.

Because when it comes to birth, the only certainty is that it will come… in its own time.

Another call

Thirty-two hours had passed. I was back on my sofa, when suddenly, my phone rang. It was Daniel.

“Can you come over please? It’s really happening now!!”

Instant déjà vu. I leapt up, grabbed my gear, and was out the door in seconds — back on the road to Largs. By now, I could drive that winding route in my sleep. Every bend, every hill — familiar. And just like before, the same quiet mantra played in my head:
“You’ve got this, Emily. I’m so nearly there.”

I pulled up, parked quickly, and entered the house. But this time, everything was different.

Emily was swaying in deep rhythm, her body fully in the flow of active labour. Her focus was unshakable. Daniel sat close by, gently rubbing her back — a quiet, steady presence.

The midwife greeted me with a warm smile. Another wonderful face from the Ayrshire Homebirth Team — someone I’d worked alongside before.

“Good to see you again,” she said. “My family still loves the photo you took from the last birth we worked together.”
It’s always such a joy to hear when fellow birthworkers appreciate seeing themselves in the beautiful work they do.

From that moment on, the room shifted into a sacred kind of stillness — the kind that wraps around a birth in progress. Time softened. Conversation faded.

Emily moved with grace and strength, listening to the soft affirmations in the background:
“Relax your jaw… relax your shoulders…”
I documented quietly, absorbing the rhythm of it all — and found myself doing the same. Unclenching, breathing, swaying.

Minutes melted into hours. Emily shifted positions, following the wisdom of her body, with Daniel by her side every step of the way. Eventually, she entered the birth pool, hugged by the warm water, leaning into the waves. Daniel stood close, massaging her shoulders, gently cooling her forehead with a damp cloth.

And then — breath gave way to something deeper. Grunts.

I moved to the other side of the pool, camera in hand, and watched as baby slowly began to emerge.

And then… quickly.

A powerful push.
The final surge.
A baby, lifted gently through the water, into the hands of love.

Emily’s arms received her newborn with awe. The room bloomed with joy.

The cry of new life.
Tears welled in Daniel’s eyes.
Emily beamed — euphoric, radiant.

Their baby was here.

Right on time.

The Final Piece

That’s the moment everything shifts — when time slows, and a family finally holds their final piece of the puzzle.

The air is thick with emotion. Wonder. Relief. Love.

After nine long months of waiting, dreaming, preparing… the little one is finally here, safe in their arms. Emily and Daniel gazed at their baby in pure admiration — everything else falling away.

As the room gently settled, space was made to birth the placenta. I overheard the midwives murmuring softly to one another,
“Did you… did you see her waters break?”

I paused, thinking back — and realised I hadn’t seen it either. But in all the beauty unfolding before me, that tiny detail had been swept away.

Emily moved carefully from the birth pool, supported and calm, to a more comfortable spot. The placenta was born. The cord was cut. The midwives began their post-birth checks.

Then came a hiccup.

They pulled out the weighing scale… only to find it had no batteries. A moment of slight panic passed between them, until I offered:
“Smoke alarms often use the same kind — maybe check one?”

Before I’d even finished the sentence, Daniel had jumped up, dismantled the smoke alarm, and handed over a battery like a true home-birth hero.

We all laughed.
“Only at a home birth!”

Baby was weighed and quickly snuggled back into the warmth of their parents’ arms. The room fell into a peaceful hush, broken only by the soft sounds of new life exploring this world.

Sleepy eyes and yawns began to ripple around the room. Emily looked at the clock and said with a wry smile,
“Well… it’s only an hour until the kids wake up!”

I blinked at her, wide-eyed.
“Please try and get at least some rest before real life resumes — now as a family of six.”

I packed up my gear quietly and slipped out the door. Another beautiful birth. Another home echoing with love.

As I drove the now-familiar road back home, the sunrise just beginning to colour the sky, I couldn’t resist. I made a cup of tea, sat down, and started backing up the photographs.

And that’s when I saw it.

The exact moment baby was born — still in the amniotic sac.

The water hadn't broken until seconds later, right as baby was lifted from the pool. A moment so fleeting the human eye couldn’t have caught it. But the camera did.

That’s the magic of this work.
The miracle of photographs.
The power of being able to see the moments that rush by in real time.

Thank you, Emily and Daniel, for entrusting me with your story — for inviting me into your home, your hearts, and for letting me witness the birth of your final puzzle piece.

-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 Emily & Daniel?