From the very first moment we learned we were expecting our baby girl, our hearts were filled with a kind of joy we had never known before. As first-time parents, we dreamed endlessly about the life ahead of us—tiny clothes, late-night feedings, first smiles, and a future overflowing with love. We imagined holding her, watching her grow, and building a family full of laughter and ordinary, beautiful moments. Everything felt possible. Everything felt perfect.
That sense of innocence and excitement changed forever on the day of our 20-week anatomy scan.
What was meant to be a routine appointment quickly became one of the most frightening days of our lives. The technician spent longer than usual, carefully moving the probe, growing quieter with each pass. At one point, she gently suggested we step out for a coffee because the baby was being “cheeky” and in an awkward position. We didn’t think much of it. We laughed, teased our baby for being stubborn, and held onto the excitement of soon learning whether we were having a boy or a girl.
When we returned, the atmosphere had shifted. The room felt heavier. The technician’s expression was more serious, and our hearts sank before a single word was spoken. Soon after, she told us we needed to go straight to the hospital. Almost as an afterthought, she added softly, “Oh, and it’s a girl.” What should have been a joyful moment felt hollow. The happiness of learning we were having a daughter was instantly overshadowed by fear and uncertainty.
At the hospital, our lives changed in a way we could never have prepared for. We were told our baby had a congenital diaphragmatic hernia (CDH). The doctor explained that there was a hole in her diaphragm, allowing her stomach and intestines to move up into her chest. Her heart had been pushed to the side, and her lungs had not developed as they should. The words felt unreal, like they belonged to someone else’s story, not ours.
I remember asking the question every parent fears asking: “Will she survive?”
The doctor couldn’t give us a clear answer. They explained that CDH is serious and that she would need immediate medical intervention after birth, including surgery. They described it as a “garden variety CDH,” but those words offered little comfort. We were sent home to wait, and that waiting was one of the hardest parts. Sitting in the car, I called my husband, and together we cried—tears of fear, confusion, and heartbreak. Our dreams for a simple, healthy pregnancy were suddenly replaced with medical terms, statistics, and terrifying unknowns.
In desperation, I began researching CDH. I searched for anything that could give me hope, anything that could help me understand what our daughter might face. That’s when I found Tiny Hero, a support network for families walking this same path. Reading the stories of other parents—of babies who fought, survived, and thrived—gave me a small but powerful sense of hope. If they could make it through, maybe our baby could too.
As my due date approached, we were referred to a specialist hospital in Sydney. There, we met a team of doctors who, while honest about the severity of Pippa’s condition, also carried a sense of calm and confidence. They told us her case was serious, but not the worst they had seen. We clung to those words. They became our lifeline.
At 39 weeks, I was induced so that all the necessary medical teams could be present and prepared. Even then, Pippa showed us her stubborn, determined spirit. After 11 long hours of labor, we ended up in an emergency cesarean. Everything happened so fast. The room was full of doctors, nurses, and machines. My heart was pounding as I prayed silently for my baby.
When Pippa was born, she gave us the smallest, most precious gift—a brief little cry. It was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard. And then, just as quickly, she was taken from us and rushed to the NICU for stabilization. I lay there, overwhelmed, emotional, and exhausted, trying to process everything that had just happened. I hadn’t even held her yet, and already she was fighting for her life.
The next day, I finally got to see her. Even through the fog of pain and medication, my heart knew exactly what it was feeling—love, fear, and overwhelming pride. Pippa was surrounded by wires, tubes, and machines. She was on high-frequency ventilation, nitric oxide, and countless medications. Her tiny body trembled with each breath. But there she was—our daughter. So small. So fragile. And yet, so incredibly strong.
The doctors told us her condition was more severe than initially thought. Surgery would be necessary to repair the hole in her diaphragm. We prepared ourselves mentally and emotionally, knowing that this was just the beginning of a long and uncertain journey.
At just eight days old, Pippa underwent her life-saving surgery. The hours felt endless as we waited, our hearts in our throats. When the surgeon finally came to speak with us, we held our breath. The surgery had gone as planned. A patch had been placed to close the hole, and her organs were moved back where they belonged. There were no major complications. We cried tears of relief, grateful for that small but significant victory.
But the road ahead was far from easy.
In the days following surgery, Pippa struggled. Her oxygen levels dropped dangerously low. One morning, we received a call no parent ever wants to get—they told us she wasn’t doing well and that we needed to come immediately. When we arrived, she looked so different, so fragile. The doctors made the difficult decision to put her on ECMO, a heart-lung bypass machine used as a last resort.
That moment was terrifying. It felt like we were standing on the edge of a cliff, unsure of what would happen next. Somehow, even in the middle of the chaos, there were small moments of surreal humor—like getting locked out of our hotel room during the procedure. In a strange way, we laughed through tears, clinging to anything that could make the situation feel even slightly lighter.
Against the odds, Pippa showed us once again just how strong she was. The doctors told us she might not even need ECMO after all—but she did, for a time. After 10 long days, she was finally able to come off the machine. It felt like a miracle.
From there, progress came slowly, measured in tiny steps. Each small improvement felt like a massive victory. She came off high-frequency ventilation. Her chest drains were removed. Medications were reduced. Each milestone filled us with hope.
The first time we held Pippa—five weeks after she was born—was one of the most emotional moments of our lives. Feeling her weight in our arms, even with all the tubes and wires, made everything real in the best possible way. At eight weeks, she was strong enough to be extubated. And after 15 long, exhausting, emotionally draining weeks in the NICU, we finally brought our baby girl home.
Life at home came with new challenges, but also new joys. Pippa continued to grow stronger every day. At seven months old, you would never guess the battles she had fought. She is still learning to eat orally, but we know she will get there in her own time. She has already proven that she does things on her own terms.
Looking back, the memories of those early days are still painful. The fear, the uncertainty, the countless hours spent watching monitors and praying for good numbers—it’s not something you ever truly forget. But alongside the pain is an overwhelming sense of gratitude. Gratitude for the doctors and nurses who never gave up. Gratitude for Tiny Hero and the families who shared their stories. Gratitude for our friends and family who carried us when we felt too weak to stand.
Most of all, gratitude for Pippa.
She is our miracle. Our fighter. Our reminder that strength can come in the tiniest packages. She has taught us about resilience, about hope, and about the kind of love that has no limits. In our darkest moments, she was our light. In our weakest moments, she was our strength.
Pippa is our Tiny Hero. And we are endlessly proud to be her parents. We cannot wait to watch her grow, dream, and do amazing things. Her story is one of courage, faith, and endless love—and it is only just beginning.