The day our daughter Emily entered the world—at just 24 weeks and 3 days, weighing only 862 grams—marked the beginning of a battle we were never prepared for. It was not only a fight for her fragile life, but also a test of our faith, our endurance, and the love that would carry us through the darkest hours. What began as an ordinary pregnancy quickly transformed into a journey filled with fear, courage, heartbreak, and ultimately, profound gratitude.
Until week 22, my pregnancy had followed a fairly normal path. Then, subtle changes began to appear. Emily’s movements seemed quieter, less frequent. I felt mild discomfort and brushed it off at first, telling myself it was just another part of pregnancy. But soon, the cramps became harder to ignore. Something in my heart told me this was different. When I contacted my midwife, she acted swiftly, sending me to the hospital for observation. At that moment, I still believed everything would be okay—but a quiet sense of dread had already begun to settle in.
The next day, after further tests, the words I feared most were spoken: I was in early labor. Disbelief and terror washed over me. My baby was far too early. At just 24 weeks, her chances depended entirely on advanced medical care and the incredible skill of a NICU team. My world spun as I was transferred by helicopter to a specialized hospital. I received steroids to help develop Emily’s lungs, magnesium to slow contractions, and every possible intervention to delay her arrival. We hoped and prayed for more time. But Emily had her own plans. Two days later, she was born—tiny, fragile, and fighting from her very first breath.
The room was filled with urgency and uncertainty. Emily was so small it was almost impossible to comprehend. Within moments, she was rushed to the NICU. I watched her disappear through those doors, my heart breaking as I wondered if I would ever get to hold my baby. Fear wrapped tightly around me, but so did a fierce, overwhelming love. Even then, I knew one thing for certain—Emily was a fighter.
The NICU became our world for the next 130 days. It was a place of beeping monitors, medical terminology, sleepless nights, and emotional highs and lows. Emily’s first and greatest challenge was her lungs. A ventilator helped her breathe during those critical early days. The first time I held her, she was covered in wires and tubes, impossibly small in my arms. It was both devastating and beautiful. In that moment, I felt the full weight of how fragile life can be—and how powerful love truly is.
Every small improvement felt like a miracle. A slight increase in oxygen levels. A tiny gain in weight. A calmer night. But just as quickly, setbacks would remind us how uncertain this journey was. Emily faced two serious infections that nearly took her from us. On Day 17, she battled a Staph Aureus infection. Then on Day 44, a Strep Group B infection struck. Each time, her condition deteriorated rapidly. Watching her struggle was unbearable. There were moments when fear felt paralyzing, when I questioned how much more my heart could take. Yet, time and again, Emily showed us her incredible strength. She kept fighting. And because she fought, so did we.
One of the most difficult parts of this journey was the isolation. My husband and our son, Leo, lived hours away from the hospital. Many days, I found myself alone in a room filled with machines and unfamiliar faces. The silence was heavy. The loneliness was real. But in that space, something beautiful also grew. The NICU staff became our extended family. They celebrated small victories with us, cried with us during setbacks, and offered comfort when words failed. Their compassion, expertise, and unwavering support carried us through moments when we felt we could not go on. I will forever be grateful for their kindness and dedication.
During our stay, we were also supported by incredible organizations like The Little Miracles Trust. Their care packages, emotional support, and thoughtful gestures—like Father’s Day treats and regular check-ins—meant more than they could ever know. In a world that often felt out of control, their presence gave us something solid to hold onto. They reminded us that we were not alone, that others cared deeply about our family and our daughter’s fight.
As Emily slowly grew stronger, we learned to celebrate every milestone, no matter how small. Her first bath. The day she came off the ventilator. Her first attempts at breastfeeding. These moments became our victories. They were proof that progress was happening, even when the road felt impossibly long. The day she was moved to low-flow oxygen felt like a turning point—a sign that maybe, just maybe, we were getting closer to home.
After 97 days, Emily was stable enough to be transferred to a hospital closer to our home. We were thrilled, but also emotional. Saying goodbye to the NICU staff was harder than we expected. They had been with us through our darkest days and our greatest hopes. Leaving them felt like leaving behind a piece of our journey. Still, we knew this move meant progress. It meant Emily was stronger. It meant we were one step closer to being together as a family of four.
Bringing Emily home was a moment filled with both joy and uncertainty. She came home with low-flow oxygen and a feeding tube, and we knew the journey was far from over. Life at home came with new challenges, new fears, and new learning curves. But surrounded by the support of our community, we found our rhythm. Slowly, Emily continued to grow stronger. And one day, the oxygen came off. The feeding tube was no longer needed. Watching her breathe freely and thrive was a gift beyond words.
We are endlessly thankful to Ronald McDonald House Charities for giving us a place to stay during those long months. Being so close to Emily brought comfort and peace during a time when everything else felt uncertain. Their support made an unimaginable situation just a little more bearable.
Today, when I look at Emily, I see more than a survivor. I see a symbol of hope. I see resilience wrapped in the smallest body. I see a miracle who taught us the true meaning of strength, love, and gratitude. Our family, friends, medical teams, and organizations like The Little Miracles Trust helped carry us through this journey, and we will forever be thankful.
Emily’s story is a reminder that even in the darkest moments, light can be found. To every family currently walking the halls of a NICU, know this: you are not alone. There is strength in community. There is power in hope. And sometimes, miracles arrive in the tiniest packages. 💜