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On this deeply personal episode of 7 Minute Stories, Aaron reflects on the life-changing events of May 22nd—the day his daughter was born. From migraines and fear to awe and transformation, this story explores what it really means to become a parent for the first time.
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Story created & performed by: Aaron Calafato
Senior Audio Engineer: Ken Wendt
Additional vocals: Cori Calafato
Art: Pete Whitehead
Original Theme Music: thomas j. duke
Additional Soundscape Design: Isaac Gehring
TRANSCRIPT
Aaron Calafato:
May 22nd is and was a really special day. The May 22nd I’m thinking about started off with a wild migraine—one that had been going for 48 hours—and it ended with the birth of my daughter. And in that moment, just as she was born, I was terrified she wouldn’t make it.
I’ll tell you a little about that day and how it all turned out—right after the music.
So I’m in the hospital. And of course—leave it to a man—I’m talking about my migraine. My daughter’s mother had been in labor for what felt like 600 days, and I’m on the couch going, “I got a migraine.” But I was stressed out. I’m not claiming anything. First and foremost, what I learned during that whole process is this: the strength of women, the feminine—the givers and curators of life—is a strength no man, no amount of masculinity, can ever touch. Ever. And there I was, moaning about my migraine.
But I was worried. Legitimately. I had never been a dad before. I was afraid of all the things you can imagine: afraid I was going to screw it up, afraid I wasn’t ready, afraid I didn’t have enough money. And then there’s the darker fear: What if something's wrong? What if she’s sick? These things happen. And to any parent who has ever lost a child or suffered through sickness—who’s walked that road—you know exactly what I mean. You’re not guaranteed anything in life. I didn’t expect a guarantee.
But I did pray. And honestly, I hadn’t been praying much. I was lost in myself—my career, my identity. But that day, I prayed. I said, “Hey… sorry I haven’t shown up in a while. Can you make sure my daughter’s okay? I’ll do anything. Just make sure she’s okay.”
That prayer came before she was even born. And as she was being born, I was trying not to pass out. They even got me a chair. No joke—a literal chair with a nurse attending to me. I’m a bit squeamish. So there I was, witnessing the miracle that so many of you have witnessed—or been the ones doing the work—and time stopped.
But then I noticed my daughter… she was blue. A bluish tint. And every fear I had came rushing in. I looked to the doctors, the nurses—nobody was saying anything. “Is she supposed to be blue?” I wondered. “Is she supposed to cry?” I was panicking.
And then these nurses, these specialists—they came over like angels. They started working on her, clearing her throat, clearing her airways. I realized this was everyday work for them, but they did it with such care. Such gentleness. They said, “It’s okay, baby girl. We’re here.”
I’ll never forget that. These heroes, these beautiful souls. I don’t even know their names—it happened so fast. They came in, did their work, and disappeared. But they saved her. And then, I heard her cry. She didn’t look like a blueberry anymore. She looked like a human being. And they handed her to me.
That feeling—holding her for the first time—I don’t think a story can do it justice. But I remember the moment. I made eye contact with her and I said, “I love you. I’m going to take care of you. I’ll always protect you.” A prayer. A promise.
And I swear—I swear—I could hear her say, telepathically, “What’s up, bro?” And I wanted to be like, “Nothing much, Brosephina.” We were friends right away.
It reminded me of something my father once told me. He said when I was born, he and my mom drove me home and it was the worst drive of his life. He was afraid everyone on the road was trying to hit the car—trying to hurt us. I never really understood that story. I’d say, “That’s great, Dad. Cool story.” But then I was holding my daughter. And then, eventually, it was time to take her home.
After the cleanup, the bath, all the chaos, we strapped her in the car. I used like a hundred seatbelts and towels. And I felt it. Suddenly, I saw every threat. Everything was danger. I was white-knuckled on the wheel. Everyone on the road seemed like a risk. But it wasn’t because of me—it was because of her. Everything I wanted her to experience—her life, her joy—I would lay down in front of a train for it.
But we got home. Safe. And since that moment, our entire family has been graced by her presence.
So now, on this May 22nd—12 years later—I reflect.
Sometimes, when I’m in a grocery store or walking through town, I see parents with young kids. And I realize—I’m the middle-aged guy now. I’m the one looking back. I’m the one who understands what they’re going through. And with my eyes—not words—I say, “I know where you’re at. I’ve been there.”
Those first few years of being a new parent… those are the years that shape you.
Being a parent to all three of my kids has been the greatest gift of my life.
But on May 22nd—happy birthday, Lou.
I love you, Brosephina.
