Our NICU Story

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

Just before I went into labor, our other children got a stomach bug. One of my daughters was so weak she wouldn’t even wake up to vomit. I remember holding her, caring for her, trying to comfort her while being heavily pregnant and exhausted myself.

Somewhere in the middle of all of it, I caught the stomach bug too.

I only threw up once, but doctors believe the stress on my body caused my placenta to begin partially detaching, which ultimately sent me into early labor at 34 weeks.

While I was in the hospital, they started me on penicillin, but something went wrong with the IV. My entire arm swelled to what felt like five times its normal size.

Oddly enough, her actual birth was the most “normal” of all my deliveries.

Four pushes and she was out.

My second daughter had been born in a parking garage — which is a story for another day — so in comparison, this delivery almost felt calm.

And for one brief moment, I thought maybe everything was okay.

They placed her on my chest, and immediately I knew something wasn’t right.

There are moments as a mother where something inside of you just knows.

I can still remember looking at her and feeling this overwhelming sense that something was wrong before anyone even fully explained it to me.

Our daughter quickly developed pulmonary hypertension after birth. At the time, we didn’t fully understand what that diagnosis meant or how serious things truly were. 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 trying to meet the transport team before they took my baby away.

Nothing prepares you for that moment.

Four grown adults surrounding your tiny baby. Tubes, wires, urgency. Watching them place your child into what felt like a sterile little box while explaining they had to leave immediately.

And then realizing you can’t go with her.

I remember the helplessness so vividly.

Because when your baby’s life is on the line, there are no phone calls asking permission first. No courtesy conversations. No slow processing. The goal is simply to save your baby.

And you are grateful for that.

So deeply grateful.

But there is grief there too.

Grief for the newborn bubble you thought you’d be in.
Grief for the nursery waiting at home.
Grief for the first days you imagined spending skin to skin instead of watching your baby through wires and monitors.

Nobody prepares you for mourning something while simultaneously being thankful.

I had carried her for 34 weeks, and suddenly I couldn’t feed her, comfort her, or even hold her whenever I wanted to.

I had to ask permission to hold my own baby.

I remember waiting for “touch times” — those small windows where I could finally place my hands on her skin without overstimulating her system. I remember giving her breastmilk on a q-tip because that was all she could tolerate at first.

Those tiny moments felt enormous.

The NICU strips motherhood down into survival.

You stop caring about birth plans or milestones or all the little things you thought mattered before. Suddenly all that matters is hearing stable oxygen numbers after rounds.

You live from update to update.

You become fluent in medical terminology you never wanted to learn.

Brady episodes.
Oscillators.
Pulmonary pressures.
Fentanyl drips.
Speech evaluations.
Car seat tests.

And somehow, this all becomes your normal.

I remember sending family text updates after rounds because I didn’t have the emotional energy to explain everything over and over again.

I remember watching her from the NICU camera on my phone while I was home with my other daughters, feeling like my heart existed in multiple places at once.

And one thing people don’t talk about enough is what this does to a marriage.

Because both parents are grieving.

Both terrified.
Both exhausted.
Both trying to survive.

But often in entirely different ways.

One person becomes hyper-focused and practical. The other emotional. One needs to talk constantly while the other shuts down trying to carry the weight silently.

You are grieving the same thing while somehow experiencing it completely differently.

There were moments where we thought we were getting close to going home, only to be pushed back again. Moments where rooms suddenly filled with nurses because her numbers dropped. Moments where I quietly pleaded with God not to let things progress further.

Please don’t let her need ECMO.

I remember sitting in the hospital lobby waiting while they stabilized her after transfer because we weren’t even allowed back immediately.

Waiting became the rhythm of our life.

Waiting for rounds.
Waiting for updates.
Waiting for progress.
Waiting for answers.

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

That phrase became part of our daily reality.

And somewhere in the middle of all of it, I realized how unprepared I felt for the practical parts of the NICU too.

I didn’t have anything that truly fit her tiny body.
Nothing that worked well around wires and monitors.
Nothing that felt soft or comforting in a season that felt so clinical and sterile.

Even something as simple as covering her isolette became emotional for me. I wanted her space to feel warm and personal and comforting, but I didn’t have those things prepared because I never imagined we would need them.

Even her baby book became part of the grief.

I had to modify it completely to include her journey because there weren’t pages for ventilators, feeding tubes, oxygen support, or NICU milestones. There weren’t spaces for the fear, the waiting, the setbacks, or the victories that only NICU parents understand.

And in so many ways, that season quietly planted the seeds for Doe & Fawn.

Not from a place of trends or aesthetics.
But from lived experience.

From understanding how deeply small comforts matter when your world feels like it’s falling apart.

How softness matters.
How thoughtful details matter.
How feeling seen as a parent matters.

Especially in the hardest moments.

There is still so much I’m not ready to fully share yet, but one of the things closest to my heart is finding ways to support NICU families in tangible, meaningful ways — because I know firsthand how lonely and overwhelming those days can feel.

And in all of it, there is this strange loss of control that settles over everything.

The hospital became both the place I feared most and the place I felt safest.

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

The monitors.
The machines.
The experts.

Leaving eventually felt terrifying too.

I remember being scared to bring her home. Scared to leave the place where someone was always watching her numbers.

And yet slowly, somehow, we got there.

After 30 days, we walked out of those hospital doors carrying our baby in our arms.

And life slowly began to look different again.

Not immediately.
Not perfectly.
But gradually.

Now she runs and plays and laughs and talks nonstop. The very thing we feared would take her — her lungs — has become one of her greatest strengths.

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 because I know there is another NICU mom somewhere reading this while sitting beside an incubator. Another mom pumping in the dark. Another mom trying to hold herself together while watching monitors rise and fall.

And I want her to know this:

You are not weak for grieving this season.
You are not ungrateful for mourning what you thought motherhood would look like.
And you are not alone in the fear, exhaustion, anger, hope, or tension you carry.

The NICU changes you.

But even in the middle of it, there can still be hope.

Even if you can’t see it yet.