There are moments in life that divide time into before and after. For our family, 2023 became that defining year — the year everything changed, the year fear and faith collided, and the year our hearts learned just how deep love can reach.
Like so many expectant mothers, I entered pregnancy with a mix of excitement and quiet worry. I knew pregnancy was never completely predictable, but I believed that with good care and a positive mindset, we would be okay. For many months, everything seemed to be moving in the right direction. I dreamed about holding my baby, hearing his first cry, and experiencing that magical moment when mother and child meet for the very first time.
But life had other plans.
At 23 weeks, what began as abdominal discomfort quickly turned into something far more frightening. The pain intensified, and before I could fully process what was happening, doctors confirmed that I had appendicitis. Within hours, I was rushed into surgery. Lying on that hospital bed, pregnant and terrified, I clung to one simple thought: Please, just let my baby be okay. I told myself this was just a temporary obstacle — something we would overcome together.
I had no idea that this was only the beginning.
Just two weeks later, at 25 weeks pregnant, my body betrayed me again. This time, it was sepsis — a life-threatening infection that sent my system into crisis. Everything happened so fast. Alarms, urgent voices, doctors moving with purpose and intensity. I remember being told that an emergency C-section was necessary to save both my life and my baby’s.
There was no time to prepare. No time to process. No time to say goodbye to the pregnancy I had imagined.
I was placed under general anesthesia.
I did not hear my son cry.
I did not see his face.
I did not feel his tiny body placed on my chest.
While I was unconscious, my husband stood alone in a room filled with both terror and miracle. He became a father in an instant — without me by his side — watching our son enter the world far too soon, fragile and fighting for every breath. It is a moment he will carry in his heart forever.
The Silence After Birth
When I finally woke up, the world felt strangely quiet.
There was no baby in my arms. No soft weight against my chest. No tiny fingers wrapped around mine. Instead, there was an aching emptiness — the kind that settles deep in your bones. I asked about my baby, and that was when reality fully crashed over me.
Our son, Luca-Grae, was in the NICU.
Tiny. Fragile. Fighting.
I was not able to meet him for three days.
Three days that felt like three lifetimes.
Each hour stretched endlessly as I lay in my hospital bed, imagining him alone in an incubator, surrounded by machines, wires, and unfamiliar sounds. I prayed. I cried. I begged my body to heal faster so I could get to my baby. Every second away from him felt unbearable.
When the day finally came and I was wheeled into the NICU, my heart nearly stopped. There he was — impossibly small, surrounded by tubes and monitors, yet undeniably beautiful. My son. My miracle. My fighter.
Holding him for the first time was overwhelming in a way words cannot fully capture. Joy and terror. Love and heartbreak. Hope and fear — all tangled together. I wanted to protect him from everything, yet I knew so much of his fight was out of my control.
Loving From a Distance
One of the hardest parts of our journey was learning how to be a mother from afar.
I spent countless hours pumping breast milk with no baby in my arms. Bottle after bottle, session after session. Each time, I imagined my milk reaching him — a small piece of me traveling across the distance between us. It was my way of loving him when I couldn’t hold him. It was my way of fighting for him when I felt so powerless.
There were nights I cried silently, so exhausted that my body ached, but my heart ached even more. I missed him with a pain that felt physical. I would lie awake thinking about whether he was warm enough, whether he was scared, whether he could somehow feel how deeply he was loved.
Being separated from your newborn is a kind of heartbreak no one prepares you for. It teaches you what it truly means to surrender control — and to trust love instead.
Gratitude in the Middle of Fear
In the darkest moments, light came in the form of incredible people.
The NICU doctors, nurses, and medical staff became more than caregivers — they became part of our family’s story. They watched over Luca-Grae with skill, compassion, and fierce dedication. They celebrated tiny victories with us. They comforted us during setbacks. They treated our son not just as a patient, but as a precious life worth fighting for.
We will never be able to fully express our gratitude. Because of them, we were able to bring our son home. Because of them, our miracle became reality.
Every gram he gained. Every tube removed. Every milestone — no matter how small — felt like a mountain conquered. And through it all, Luca-Grae showed us what true strength looks like.
The Angel Preemies and a Shared Bond
Along this journey, we discovered a community we never knew we would be part of — parents of premature babies. It is a world filled with understanding, compassion, and shared heartbreak. It is a place where no explanation is needed, because everyone already knows how heavy and how hopeful this road can be.
In our hearts, we also carry the Angel preemies — the tiny warriors who fought with everything they had but were not able to stay. Their stories matter. Their lives matter. Their families’ pain matters. We honor them with every breath of gratitude we take, knowing how close we came to walking that same path.
This community has taught us that love can exist even in grief — and that hope can survive even the deepest fear.
Looking Forward With Hope
Today, Luca-Grae continues to grow stronger.
Each smile. Each stretch. Each new milestone is a reminder of just how far he has come. What once felt impossible is now our daily reality — holding him, watching him, loving him without wires or machines between us.
He has already taught us more about courage, resilience, and faith than we ever thought possible. He has shown us that miracles are not always loud — sometimes they come in tiny breaths, tiny fingers, and tiny hearts that refuse to give up.
We no longer take a single moment for granted. Every cuddle. Every laugh. Every quiet moment together is a gift we treasure deeply.
A Message to Other NICU Parents
To every parent walking a NICU journey right now:
You are stronger than you know.
Your love matters more than you realize.
Every small victory is worth celebrating.
There will be days when you feel broken, exhausted, and afraid. But there will also be moments of light — moments that remind you why you keep going. Hold onto those moments. They will carry you through.
You are not alone.
A Final Word of Gratitude
To the NICU staff who became our lifeline.
To the families who shared their stories and strength.
To every person who prayed, supported, and stood beside us — thank you.
You were part of Luca-Grae’s miracle.
And as we continue this journey together as a family, we will carry that gratitude in our hearts forever — honoring where we came from, celebrating how far we’ve come, and believing with all our hearts in the beautiful future ahead.