In The Thick of It and Beyond

Our youngest daughter came into this world in a way I never could have prepared for.

She was born six weeks early and quickly developed pulmonary hypertension. At the time, we didn’t fully understand what that meant or how close we truly were to losing her. She was born on a Tuesday afternoon, and by Wednesday morning, she was being transferred to a higher-level hospital equipped to handle her fragile condition.

I was newly postpartum, physically weak, emotionally raw, and suddenly running down a hospital hallway to the NICU to meet the transport team before they took her.

Nothing prepares you for that moment.

Four grown adults surrounding your tiny baby. Tubes, wires, urgency. And then placing her into what felt like a box — a sterile, clinical container — while telling you that you have to stay behind. That you can’t follow. That they have to go quickly.

I will never forget the helplessness of that moment.

I wasn’t able to care for her.
To comfort her.
To protect her.

I had carried her for 34 weeks, and now she was in the hands of complete strangers who quite literally held her life in theirs.

In that moment, you don’t get to control anything. You don’t get to slow it down or ask for more time. You are faced with a choice you didn’t ask for — to panic, or to lean into your faith.

But let me be clear about something.

Leaning into faith does not mean the absence of pain.

Because I felt it all.

I felt the fear as I watched her being wheeled away.
I felt the ache of not knowing what the next hour would hold.
I felt the weight of surrender in a way I never had before.

I trusted… but I was terrified.

My faith had to stand on its own two feet in that moment.

For me, music has always been a place where emotions find words when I can’t form them myself.

And in that season, music became the way we survived.

There were two songs in particular that we clung to — not casually, but desperately. We didn’t just listen to them; we pleaded them over her.

One was Gratitude by Brandon Lake.

There’s a line that says, “You’ve got a lion inside of your lungs, so get up and praise the Lord.”

And I remember singing that over her, again and again, with everything in me.

Declaring it.
Begging it.
Believing it even when I was scared to.

You’ve got a lion inside your lungs.

The very thing that was failing her… I was asking God to strengthen.

The other was Great Are You Lord by All Sons and Daughters.

“It’s Your breath in our lungs…”

And I would change the words as I sang.

It’s Your breath in her lungs.

And I would sob.

Because in that moment, that was the truth I had to cling to.

I couldn’t fix it.
I couldn’t change it.
I couldn’t pray it away in an instant.

All I could do was surrender her breath back to the One who gave it.

The days that followed were heavy in a way that’s hard to fully explain unless you’ve lived it.

When we arrived at the new hospital, we weren’t even able to go back to see her right away. We had to sit in the lobby and wait while they stabilized her.

Waiting became a theme.

Waiting for updates.
Waiting for progress.
Waiting for answers that often didn’t come.

“We just have to wait and see what her body does.”

That phrase echoed through so many conversations.

Over the next 30 days, we lived inside a rhythm that felt both urgent and painfully slow.

The constant beeping of machines.
Nurses rushing in when her heart rate dropped during brady episodes.
Moments where the room would suddenly fill with people trying to help her breathe.

Walking into her room one day and seeing her on an oscillator — a machine I never even knew existed — and quietly pleading with God, please don’t let it go further than this.

Please don’t let her need ECMO.

There were medications — fentanyl drips, anti-anxiety support — things you never imagine your newborn needing, but suddenly you’re learning about them, consenting to them, trusting doctors with decisions that feel impossibly heavy.

There were steps forward… and then steps back.

Moments where you think you’re going home soon, only to be set back weeks.

Car seat tests.
Feeding evaluations.
Speech pathologists.
Case workers.

Learning to advocate for your baby while also trying to hold yourself together.

Bonding with nurses who become part of your story.

Watching other families walk similar paths — and some walk paths you pray you never have to.

Hearing silence down the hall where there used to be noise.

And carrying that with you, too.

At the same time, life outside the hospital continues.

I had two other daughters at home.

And for nearly a month, I lived in this constant tension of being in two places at once — physically in the NICU, but emotionally split between all three of my children.

There is a kind of stretching that happens in those moments that changes you.

In the thick of it, I truly didn’t know how the story would end.

There were moments I thought we might never leave.

Moments I thought she might come home on oxygen indefinitely.

Moments where fear tried to write the ending for us.

And strangely, the hospital began to feel safe.

Because in my mind, that’s where she was being kept alive.

It felt controlled.

Monitored.

Protected.

Of course, that was an illusion — a false sense of control in a situation where control didn’t exist.

But when you’re in it, you hold onto anything that feels steady.

Even if it’s temporary.

Even if it’s not fully true.

And I remember feeling afraid to bring her home.

Afraid to leave the place where all the machines and experts were.

Afraid to step into the unknown again — this time without the constant monitoring.

But then… we did.

After everything, she came home.

We walked out of those hospital doors with our baby in our arms.

And slowly, life began to look different.

Not all at once.

Not perfectly.

But gradually.

And now, she is thriving.

The very thing we feared would take her — her lungs — has become, in many ways, her strength.

She is strong.
She is funny.
She is smart.
She is full of personality.

She is not delayed.
She is curious and expressive.
She is a little bit sassy in the best way.

She runs, she plays, she learns, she explores.

She walked early.
She knows her colors and shapes.
She’s convinced she can read.

She is alive in a way that feels like a miracle you get to witness every single day.

And sometimes I still catch myself looking at her and thinking,

We made it.

Because in the middle of it, I truly didn’t know if we would.

I share this not because every story ends the same way.

And I want to say that gently, with so much awareness and care for the mothers who didn’t get to bring their babies home.

Your story matters.
Your grief matters.
And nothing about this is meant to minimize that reality.

But for the mom who is in the thick of it right now — whether in a NICU room or just in a hard, stretching season of motherhood — I want you to know this:

The middle is not the end.

Even when it feels endless.
Even when it feels heavy.
Even when you can’t see what’s coming next.

Things can shift.

Healing can happen.
Strength can grow.
Joy can return in ways you didn’t expect.

And even before circumstances change, something in you is being built.

A deeper faith.
A stronger resilience.
A quieter, steadier trust.

So if you find yourself at the end of the day replaying everything that feels unfinished…

Try, gently, to shift your focus.

Look at what you did.

You showed up.
You loved your child.
You endured something hard.
You kept going.

And that matters more than a completed list ever could.

If you are in a season where words feel hard to find, I want to share the songs that carried us.

The ones we played on repeat.
The ones we prayed through.
The ones that held us when we didn’t have the strength to hold ourselves.

Our NICU Playlist:

• Same God — Elevation Worship

• Never Lost — TRIBL & Maverick City Music

• How He Loves Us — David Crowder Band

• Rest On Us — Maverick City Music

• Jireh — Elevation Worship & Maverick City Music

• Gratitude — Brandon Lake

• The Blessing — Kari Jobe

• God I Look to You — Bethel Music & Francesca Battistelli

• Great Are You Lord — All Sons & Daughters

• Joy of the Lord — Maverick City Music & Naomi Raine

Maybe they will meet you where you are, too.

Motherhood will take you into places you never expected.

Some beautiful.
Some painful.
Some that reshape you completely.

But even in the hardest places, there is still room for hope.

And sometimes, without realizing it, you are already walking toward it.