There are moments in life that divide time into before and after.
Today is one of those moments.
Today, my baby is in surgery.
Those words still don’t feel real when I say them in my head. They echo quietly, painfully, as I sit in a hospital waiting room that feels far too big and far too cold for a heart this full of fear. My baby—my whole world—is lying under bright lights, surrounded by machines, while strangers work delicately on their tiny head. And all I can do is wait.
Waiting is the hardest part of being a parent today.
This isn’t the kind of fear that comes with scraped knees or late-night fevers. This is a deep, bone-heavy fear—the kind that settles into your chest and makes it hard to breathe. Fear of the unknown. Fear of outcomes no one can promise. Fear of losing the most precious piece of your soul.
I’ve never felt so helpless.
Before today, my job as a mother was clear. I fed my baby, rocked them to sleep, kissed away tears, celebrated milestones, and promised—over and over—that I would always protect them. I believed that love alone could shield them from harm.
Today, I had to hand that promise to a medical team and trust that they would carry it for me.
The moment they took my baby from my arms will stay with me forever. I pressed my lips to their forehead, breathing them in like I might never get the chance again. I whispered words they couldn’t hear but I needed to say: I love you. I’m here. Be brave. And then they were gone, disappearing behind doors I wasn’t allowed to follow through.
A part of me stayed behind those doors.
As a parent, you never fully understand what it means to love someone until you realize your heart is walking around outside your body. Vulnerable. Fragile. Completely irreplaceable. Sitting in this waiting room, surrounded by strangers and silence, I feel that truth more than ever.
The clock on the wall ticks loudly, mockingly. Every second stretches longer than the last. Time refuses to move forward, yet I would give anything to fast-forward to the moment I hear the words, “Your baby is okay.”
My mind refuses to rest.
How did we get here?
How did we go from ordinary days filled with giggles, diapers, and lullabies to surgical charts and consent forms?
Why does something so small have to carry something so heavy?
I replay memories to survive the waiting. The first time my baby wrapped their fingers around mine. The soft weight of them sleeping on my chest. The sound of their laugh—pure, unfiltered joy. I cling to those moments as if they are oxygen.
Because without them, I might drown in the fear.
I try to be strong, but strength feels like a costume today—something I’m wearing for survival, not something I truly feel. Inside, I am unraveling. My thoughts swing wildly between hope and terror. One moment I remind myself that the doctors are skilled, that this procedure is necessary, that medicine has come so far. The next moment, fear whispers cruel questions I don’t want to hear.
What if something goes wrong?
What if this changes everything?
What if this is the worst day of my life?
In moments like this, logic means very little. Love is louder than reason, and fear speaks in its voice.
So I pray.
I pray in the quiet moments when no one is watching. I pray without eloquent words or perfect sentences. Sometimes it’s nothing more than a desperate plea whispered under my breath. Sometimes it’s tears. Sometimes it’s silence and surrender.
I pray for the surgeons’ hands to be steady.
I pray for wisdom, precision, and compassion.
I pray for my baby’s tiny body to be strong enough for this fight.
I pray for a miracle, even if I don’t know what that miracle should look like.
And I reach out—to family, to friends, to anyone willing to hold a piece of this fear with me. I ask for prayers, for light, for good thoughts sent into the universe on behalf of my child. It might seem small to some, but right now, it feels like everything.
Because when you’re this powerless, hope becomes your lifeline.
The waiting room hums softly around me. People walk in and out with stories I don’t know. Somewhere nearby, lives are being changed just like mine. It’s strange how the world continues on its normal rhythm while yours has come to a complete stop.
I think about the future—about the life I want my baby to have. I imagine scraped knees healed with kisses, first days of school, bedtime stories, laughter echoing through our home. I imagine a life not defined by hospital walls.
And I promise myself something, right here in this moment of fear: no matter what today brings, I will keep fighting for that future.
Being a parent means carrying fear and hope in the same breath. It means loving someone so deeply that the thought of losing them feels unbearable—and choosing to love them anyway. It means showing up even when you are terrified, because your child needs you to believe when they cannot.
As the minutes stretch into hours, something unexpected begins to happen.
Peace—small and fragile—starts to settle in.
Not because the fear is gone, but because I’ve reached the edge of what I can control. I’ve done everything I can do. I’ve loved my baby fiercely. I’ve trusted the people trained to help. I’ve prayed until my heart feels lighter.
Now, all that’s left is faith.
Faith that love is stronger than fear.
Faith that my baby is wrapped in more than wires and blankets—that they are surrounded by grace.
Faith that no matter what happens, I will find the strength to face it.
The bond between a mother and her child is unbreakable. It stretches across hospital rooms and operating tables. It holds firm through uncertainty and pain. It whispers reassurance even when words fail.
My baby’s fight is my fight.
And when this day finally ends—when I see my child again, when I hear the update I’ve been waiting for—I know I will carry this moment with me forever. Not just the fear, but the love that rose to meet it. The courage I didn’t know I had. The quiet prayers that filled the space where panic could have lived.
I don’t know what tomorrow holds.
But I know this: love will be there waiting.
And that, sometimes, is enough to carry us through the longest day of our lives.