“Dear NICU Mama, You may not know it now, but one day, you will be a walking letter of hope for the NICU mom who is sitting beside an incubator wondering if her baby will ever come home.

Right now, your days are measured in monitors, how many mLs taken, and numbers you never expected to know. You celebrate ounces gained and your heart is split between home and the hospital. You wonder if anyone truly understands the ache of leaving your baby behind at night and telling them you will be back in the morning.

I know, because I was you. I know what it feels like to recover from childbirth while trying to survive the trauma that brought your baby into the world. I was told to get my daily walks in for my own recovery but couldn’t bring myself to leave my baby’s side when he needed me the most. I know what it’s like to go home with empty arms and pray for the day you get to walk out with your baby in them. I know what it’s like to feel so helpless and vulnerable and to put your trust into someone you don’t really know to take care of your baby when you can’t.

But I also know this: One day, the monitors will be silent. One day, you’ll know your baby’s cries better than the beeps. One day, you’ll look back at pictures that once broke your heart and realize they tell a story of strength. One day, your baby will smile at you, snuggle in your arms, and the hospital days and trauma won’t be all you remember.

The NICU won’t always be your whole story, but rather something that shaped you both to be stronger and more resilient. And one day, you’ll find yourself comforting another mama who’s living the hardest days of her life. Without even realizing it, you’ll become proof that there is life after the NICU. That there is joy after trauma.“

Love,
Mikayla

More of Our Journey:

“Everything changed quickly for us when I experienced a large bleed at 34 weeks pregnant. I was admitted to L&D where I was monitored for the next 24 hours, which felt like a lifetime. Throughout that time, I was actively having contractions, but because of the circumstances, they couldn’t safely give me medication to slow or stop them.
Things seemed to stabilize; the bleeding slowed, and the contractions became less intense. We thought maybe we made it through the worst of it. But suddenly, I had another large hemorrhage. I remember telling my mom that my water had just broke, but it wasnt my water—it was blood. It seemed like every nurse on the floor was in my room within seconds.
 They worked through the night to keep both of us stabilized, but I continued to have intense bleeding. They even left the hemorrhage crash cart in my room. As the hours passed, it became clear that the baby was in distress as his vitals became unstable. I labored through the night with intense contractions just 2 to 4 minutes apart, completely unmedicated.
Early the next morning, my high-risk OB told me that I was progressing in labor and the baby was breech, so there was no longer a choice, and we had to proceed with an emergency C-section. Because of the bleeding I already had, they prepared me for the very real possibility of needing a blood transfusion if I hemorrhaged again during surgery.
When our baby was delivered, the room was silent. We never heard him cry. I knew immediately that something was wrong, but it wasnt until later that I learned he was in severe respiratory distress and wasn’t breathing on his own. He was rushed away before I ever had the chance to hold him.
While I was still in surgery, my OB confirmed that I had suffered a large placental abruption—meaning the placenta, the source of my babys oxygen and life, had been actively separating from my body. Not to mention this was causing significant internal bleeding for me. It was then that I realized the OB’s decision to take me for the C-section when she did saved both of our lives.
Instead of spending our first days together in a hospital room, I met our baby through the walls of an incubator. I learned to celebrate oxygen settings, feeding milestones, and every gram he gained. I learned what it felt like to leave the hospital with empty arms, to pump milk beside an empty crib, and to trust strangers to care for the person I loved most in the world.
After almost a month in the NICU, we finally heard the words we desperately prayed for: “you can take your baby home.”
But bringing him home didn’t erase the trauma. I developed postpartum PTSD and anxiety as my mind replayed those hours over and over again. Healing has taken time, therapy, and grace, and its a journey I continue every day.
Our NICU experience changed us forever. It taught us how fragile life can be, how strong five pounds and twelve ounces truly is, and how deeply a parent can love. The NICU will always be part of our story. But it is no longer our whole story. Today, our story is one of resilience, faith, gratitude, and overwhelming love.
Every day I thank God for our miracle baby and for every person who cared for him when we couldn’t. I hope one day he knows just how fiercely he was loved and fought for from the very beginning.”