🌧️ "Twice Chosen: A NICU Mother’s Journey Through the Storm" 🌈

Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d take a journey I didn’t sign up for—let alone take it twice. But God had other plans. I became a NICU mom not once, but twice. And nothing could have prepared me for what that path would hold.

Each of us experiences birth in different ways—some joyful, some traumatic. Some parents leave the hospital in just a few days with their baby swaddled in their arms. Others walk out with empty hands but a heart full of hope. Then there are those who quietly join a sacred club—the ones whose babies now live in heaven.

I fell somewhere in between—in a gut-wrenching “catch 22.” A place where you live each day on edge, never knowing if you’ll be one of the lucky ones to bring your baby home.

My third child’s NICU stay wasn’t his first—but it was his hardest. Yes, you read that right. He had to be admitted to two different NICUs.

The first time, I was overwhelmed. I hadn’t even seen him for 24 hours after his birth. I was still hooked up to magnesium, and I was angry—angry that I hadn’t gotten to hold him, jealous that my husband already had. I feared we wouldn’t bond because I’d missed those first precious moments. Don’t get me wrong—I was beyond grateful that my husband could be there with him—but I felt robbed. I was his mother. I was supposed to be there.

Every moment in the NICU was like walking into the unknown. The anxiety was consuming. I dreaded the phone ringing, scared it would be a nurse calling with bad news. And while my baby was in the hospital, I was still needed at home—for my two other children, who didn’t understand why mom wasn’t fully “there.”

But day by day, my little fighter got stronger. We learned how to feed him—though it wasn’t like feeding a typical newborn. We were trained on how to monitor his breathing. We even learned infant CPR. Those NICU nurses? They were a godsend. Angels in scrubs. Patient, kind, compassionate—they answered every question, calmed every fear.

Just shy of one month old, we got to bring him home. That joy was overwhelming—but it quickly turned into a new kind of anxiety. I became hyper-aware of germs. If someone was sick? Stay away. Wash your hands before touching him—then I still hovered.

Something deep inside me knew. The night before he got sick, I felt it. A gut instinct. I couldn’t shake the unease. We went to a doctor’s appointment that morning for a routine weight check, and they said everything looked fine.

But that afternoon, after a nap, I woke to find my baby gray and unresponsive.

I froze.

My brother, thank God, was there and immediately called 911. I watched helplessly as EMTs worked on my tiny infant. Rushed to the hospital. Surrounded by a swarm of doctors and nurses. It was all a blur. I could feel tears pouring down my cheeks, but I was numb. I answered the same questions over and over again like I was on autopilot.

Then we were told the words no parent is ever ready to hear: “He needs more help than we can give. He needs to be transferred.”

It was dark. Raining. Cold. And I couldn’t feel a thing.

Even my husband, usually the calm, hopeful one, was silent. I think deep down we both knew—it was really, really bad.

We were told he might not make it.

I sat in the room while they intubated my baby—a month old. His tiny throat was already scarred from his first intubation at birth. They stopped his heart. I watched as the team worked against the clock. “You have two minutes,” they said. I stopped breathing until I heard his heart beat again.

His face was swollen from the medications. I couldn’t hold him. And I still had kids at home—scared, confused, wondering where mom was.

The guilt was unbearable. The grief nearly consumed me. My marriage was cracking under the pressure. I took my pain out on my husband. He tried to understand, to be supportive—but I was drowning. I forgot he was hurting too. It nearly broke us.

Weeks passed. Nothing changed. Same wires. Same beeping monitors. Same sterile rooms.

Then, in week five, something miraculous happened.

We were told his lungs were completely healed. Not just improved—healed. No scarring. No explanation. Even the doctors were stunned.

The next day, we walked in to see our son breathing on his own.

They warned us to prepare for delays, potential disabilities. But three years later, here we are—no delays, no diagnoses, just a hyper, wild, beautifully energetic little boy who defied every odd.

A baby who wasn’t expected to make it… is now a thriving toddler with the loudest laugh and the fiercest spirit.

And my fourth child? Another NICU journey—another story.

To be continued…

💛 To the NICU moms who are still in the trenches, the ones who’ve walked this road, and the ones who carry memories instead of babies—your strength is unmatched. Your love is fierce. Your story matters. You are not alone.