Samantha was born on February 11, 2006. Her birth was one of the most amazing experiences of my life (in the truest sense of the word amazing). Of course, her being our first child, it was also pretty overwhelming on many levels. Although Samantha was born three and a half weeks early and Michelle’s labor was incredibly intense (and without drugs), the birth was so remarkable and miraculous that it blew me away. At the moment she came out, I had a flood of emotion—joy, excitement, relief, gratitude, fear, and curiosity—and an overwhelming feeling of love. As the midwife caught her and we saw that she was healthy, the tears flowed.
In the midst of all the excitement, I had a funny feeling that this all seemed somewhat familiar to me. This feeling didn’t make any rational sense, since I’d never had a baby, of course, and hadn’t even seen one being born (except for those videos in our birthing class, which, by the way, were nothing like the real experience). Nonetheless, I couldn’t shake the sense of emotional déjà vu. I didn’t understand it, so I just let it go and allowed myself to get caught up in the incredible moment of newborn bliss.
She was born late in the afternoon on a Saturday. A little over 24 hours later, somewhere in the middle of Sunday night (probably the early morning hours of Monday), we were still in the hospital and I couldn’t sleep. Honestly, with the excitement of the birth, the feeding, changing, and sleeping schedule of the new baby, and everything else that was happening, I wasn’t all that interested in sleeping. Thankfully, both Michelle and Samantha were peacefully sleeping at that moment and I sat there watching them. I was feeling such joy, pride, contentment, and love as I looked at my beautiful new baby and my incredibly brave wife. I wanted to capture that moment, both for myself and also for Samantha, so I took out a piece of paper and started to write her a letter. My intention was to let her know exactly what it felt like just a day after her birth—and to reflect on my honest thoughts and feelings as a brand-new father, still buzzing from the whole experience.
The words flowed easily, which is often true for me, especially when I’m feeling an intense emotion. I let Samantha know about my love for her and all that entailed. I talked about the amazement of her birth and how in awe of her mommy I was. As I was in the midst of writing the letter, I started thinking about my own father, who had died a little more than four years earlier. I wondered what it felt like when he was a brand-new father. And I wondered how he would feel if he were here to meet his new granddaughter. I felt a deep sense of love and connection with my dad in that moment. I also felt a lot of empathy for him, given all of the struggles he’d experienced in his life. It was a beautiful moment of healing and connection for me with my dad—as a new dad myself—and with my sleeping baby girl.
I returned to the letter and began to write specifically about my father, her grandfather, whom she would never meet, but who I know would have loved to have met her. As I got a few sentences into writing to her about my dad, I dropped my pen and started sobbing. It hit me right then—the reason that the moment of Samantha’s birth felt familiar to me was because it was very similar to the moment of my dad’s death.
I’d had the honor of being in the room when my dad took his final breath, and although, obviously, the circumstances and emotions associated with my dad’s death and Samantha’s birth were quite different, there was something similarly sacred and beautiful about these two experiences. There was a presence and an energy in the room when Samantha came in and when my dad left. It was loving, safe, magical, and very much the same in both situations.
A great quote that is often attributed to Albert Einstein says, “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.” There is so much for us to be in awe of in life if we stop and pay attention. From the most profound to the merely mundane, life is full of wonder. Too often we take people and things for granted, instead of being amazed by the beauty and synchronicity that exists all around us.
When something “big” happens in life, like the birth of a child, the healing of an illness, a major achievement, a monumental peak experience, or something else we consider to be great, we often call it a miracle or at least give ourselves permission, albeit sometimes for just a very short time, to stop and appreciate the amazement of the specific event (and of life in general). This is wonderful and powerful when we do it. However, we don’t have to wait for something “amazing” to happen to live with a sense of amazement. Even things that are challenging and painful can be amazing if we choose to look for the gifts in those experiences. Simple, positive things like sunsets, the laughter of children, the tress blowing in the wind, and even just the ability to walk are all things we could step back and appreciate, if we choose to do so.
Years ago a mentor of mine said, “Mike, if you want to dramatically change your life, there are two simple things you can do right now. Be easily impressed and hard to offend. Sadly, most of us have this the other way around. But if you can practice being authentically impressed and amazed by people, situations, and life itself, the way a child is, and make a firm commitment to yourself not to get offended unless something really big happens, you’ll live a fantastic life.”
The wisdom of this suggestion was profound. When we allow ourselves to be amazed by life, life is always amazing in return.