The Bewitching Hour

By Kim Brassor

One Voice Evolving: Raw. Real. Relatable.

My 2 am trip down memory lane

It was 2am when my mind decided this was the perfect time to revisit childbirth, leadership, and the fine art of letting go of control. You know the hour where everything feels truer, heavier, and a little funnier than it does in daylight. The bewitching hour. The one where memory and meaning blur and you stop pretending you’re fine.

Nine months of waiting (technically ten). Nine (or nineteen) hours of labor. Nine (or ninety) minutes of pushing. And then out of nowhere and right on time a newborn enters the world. We like the math of it. We forget the mess.

My firstborn arrived right on schedule and completely off-script. At exactly 11:16 pm, the delivery room speaker crackled to life and someone announced the time with unusual enthusiasm. There was applause. In my hormone-flooded, post-labor haze, I said out loud, “He weighed HOW MUCH???”

Nope. Not his weight.

It was the bewitching hour. He was the last baby born within the hospital’s contest window. The prize? $4,000 in travel money which, at the time, felt like winning the lottery and being handed a live grenade.

Now what is a first-time mom supposed to do with a newborn and a year of free travel? Obviously, you bundle up that baby and go.

And we did. Planes. Cars. Hotels. Alaskan adventures. Family visits. We went to see people and sent tickets so people could come see us. It was exhilarating. It was exhausting. It was wildly impractical. It was also deeply alive. I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone who needs eight uninterrupted hours of sleep or still believes control is a real thing, but it taught me something I’m remembering again now: you don’t wait until you’re ready. You learn while moving.

That memory has been sitting with me because what we’re in right now feels exactly like that season. Something has been gestating for a long time—carefully, intentionally, with equal parts hope and nausea. And now the contractions have begun. You can feel it before you can explain it. Pressure. Urgency. That quiet panic when you realize your tidy birth plans were really just emotional support objects to keep you busy while you waited for the real deal.

I have a talented and trusted support team to help with labor and delivery this time. In our last meeting, I told the truth instead of the polished version. We have to keep this simple. Not because the work is simple or the vision lacks depth, but because my brain is allergic to chaos. I can barely manage my own moving parts most days, much less be the final inspection point for everything. Simplicity isn’t a preference—it’s imperative for me to deliver and stay regulated enough to lead.

I’m not here to micromanage the birth. I’m here to make sure you have what you need to be successful. I bring vision and listening ears, not a laminated roadmap. I trust that your minds know far more about what you need than I could ever guess. That trust isn’t me stepping back. It’s me stepping into alignment. No one births alone, but no one else can do the pushing for you either.

What surprised me most was realizing how much your presence matters. This work evolves faster because you’re here. My One Voice doesn’t just speak louder—it deepens. The energy between us, the building and connecting and collaborating, actually fuels me. That’s how I know this isn’t just productive. It’s alive.

And then there’s the part I’m laughing at now. My carefully prepared “birthing plan” idea? Not working. What I thought would be a tidy holding space has turned into another pile of post-it notes in my brain with energy I can feel but can’t yet release. Trying to contain that energy feels like trying to hold back a labor contraction when it’s time to push. Excruciating. LaMaze breathing is not covering it. I really don’t want a forceps delivery but the body will do what the body will do. Ready or not.

You can stall. You can distract. You can say you’re not ready. Still, when it’s time, it’s time. The choice isn’t whether something will be born. The choice is whether it will be supported—or forced.

When my son was born, that unexpected travel money didn’t make us experts overnight. It meant we figured it out tired. We cried in airport bathrooms. We laughed more than we slept. We built a life around what was possible instead of waiting for perfection.

That’s how real transitions work. They’re heavy. They’re inconvenient. They ask for trust, humor, and a willingness to look a little foolish while learning.

So if you’re feeling the pressure, the readiness, the “something is coming and I can’t pretend it’s not” energy—you’re not behind and you’re not failing. You’re just in the bewitching hour.

And if my life is any indication, there may be unexpected rewards on the other side along with a deep need for rest, snacks, and someone to hold the baby while you shower.

We’re doing this the way real things are born. Messy, mystical, and majestic.
And honestly? I wouldn’t trade it - or you - for the world!

Hugs and hope,

—Kim

If you’re reading this in your own bewitching hour—wide awake, mind racing, body knowing—tell me:

What’s ready to come through, even if you don’t have words for it yet?