Courtney's Chronicles
The farrowing house has its own kind of peace. It's not quiet really, but it's steady. It comes alive after dark. While most of the world sleeps, soft grunts and tiny squeals fill the air, the low hum of heat lamps, and the soft grunt of a sow settling in. Out there, under the red glow of those bulbs, time slows down and a mom finds a different peace, the kind that only comes from caring for new life.
On our farm, when the farrowing season rolls around, we all have our roles. My husband usually handles the kids, keeping the house running. Don't get me wrong, my husband spends his share of time in the farrowing house, but his patience runs out quicker than mine and he gets more worried about how long the birthing process is taking. I tend to take the night shift in the farrowing house. Some nights, that means one sow delivering smoothly and everyone tucked in before midnight. Other nights, it's an all-nighter watching the time go by before the last piglet arrives. And yet, those nights are my favorite. There's something about being out there, just me, the sows and the stillness, that soothes a tired farm mom's soul.
I know what's coming when our sows are pawing on the bottom of the crate, breathing slowly yet heavily, and they seem to know that something is happening inside them. I check the light bulbs and settle comfortably on the bucket that's seen more litters born on our farm than I can count. The arrival of the first piglet always takes my breath away. Tiny, wet and shivering, it comes squealing into the world like it has something important to say. I grab a towel, dry it off, and place it beneath the heat lamp. Before long, another arrives, and another. My hands stay busy, my mind quiet. Out there, I'm not thinking about bills, deadlines or tomorrow's laundry. I'm just present, in the moment, in the heated barn, surrounded by the heartbeat of our small farm.
While I'm in the barn, my husband's doing the heavy lifting back in the house, feeding the kids, giving them baths and finishing up the last load of the day's laundry. He's good at it, and he knows I'm where I need to be. Let's not forget that our six children play their part, too. They love to peek at the sows, guessing who will be first to farrow. They love to assist in helping piglets enter the world when Mom and Dad need assistance. It's a family affair, really, everyone pitches in when it counts.
Come morning, the first question from my sleepy-eyed kids is always, "Did she have them yet?" When I tell them yes, they cheer like it's Christmas morning. They'll rush through getting ready for school just to see the new piglets. Their faces light up with wonder. Those are the moments that make the late nights worth it, watching my children learn gentleness, patience and pride through simple farm chores.
Some people find therapy in a yoga class or a long walk. For me, it's in the farrowing house at 2 a.m. There's something deeply calming about watching new life unfold. The world outside may be full of noise and rush, but inside those barn walls, everything slows to a natural pace.
Sometimes I'll sit quietly between deliveries, listening to the sow's breathing and the faint shuffle of piglets under the lamp. It's humbling and healing. When you've spent hours helping a sow through labor, wiping down piglets, and making sure each one finds its first meal, your own worries feel smaller. You remember what matters: care, patience and persistence.
People laugh when I tell them that the farrowing season is therapeutic, but it's true. There's something healing about those long nights. Out there, surrounded by life, the rest of the world fades away. No social media, no news, no noise. Just the steady breathing of the animals and the satisfaction of quiet, necessary work. It's not glamorous, it's warm boots, messy hair and the faint smell of iodine that doesn't wash off for days, but it's grounding. Every new litter reminds me why we do this—for the satisfaction of seeing hard work turn into something real, something living.