Finding Grit: A Mama's Journey Through 9 Weeks in the NICU

A New Reality

Motherhood never goes according to plan- and for some of us before it ever really starts. Sometimes, the universe hands you a plot twist you would have never written for yourself.

For me, it was the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU).

“She’s going to survive, right?” I asked the doctor. My voice weaker than expected, my body prepped for an emergency C-section, fluorescent lights too bright, heart pounding too loud.

It was May 2013. My due date was still eleven weeks away. And my daughter—my Lola—was on her way whether we were ready or not.

Two years earlier, I had lost my son at just 20 weeks. So when the doctors told me not to worry this time, I nodded politely but didn’t believe a word. Because here’s the truth: once you’ve lost one child, you don’t ever take another for granted. You hold your breath. You beg. You plead and bargain with the universe.

And then, ready or not, Lola arrived.

Two pounds, eight ounces of fierce. Tiny enough to fit in my hand. Strong enough to rewrite my entire life.

Life in the NICU: Fear, Hope, and Small Miracles

The NICU is its own strange planet. It hums and beeps and glows. At the time, it was dimly lit, curtain-divided, and overflowing with both heartbreak and hope.

Lola came with a maze of wires, monitors and machines- a far cry from the natural birth I have envisioned. Every day was a wild cocktail of awe and fear. Every night, alarms blared as her tiny body forgot how to breathe. And every morning, I wondered how much longer I could hold my breath waiting to see if hers would return.

What I quickly discovered though: humans—especially the tiniest ones—are unbelievably resilient. My daughter was fighting for every single ounce, and she taught me to do the same.

The NICU stripped me down. It asked the hardest questions: What matters? Who matters? How do you keep going when you feel like you just can’t anymore?

And the answers came in small miracles—an extra gram on the scale, a bottle finished without struggle, a night without alarms. Progress in the NICU isn’t measured in days. It’s measured in breaths.

Lessons from a Tiny Warrior

Here’s what Lola taught me in those nine long weeks:

• Celebrate everything! A full feeding. A steady heart rate. A poop. All of it is worthy of fireworks.

• Gratitude and fear can coexist. They often do.

• Community saves you. Nurses, doctors, other NICU parents, and the friends who show up with food or just sit beside you—you cannot do this alone, and maybe you're not meant to...

• Grace is oxygen. For yourself, your baby, your family.

  
  

A fellow NICU parent once scribbled Shakespeare’s words on a sticky note for me: “Though she be but little, she is fierce.”

She couldn't be more right.

Sixty-three days later, we carried Lola home. Still fragile. Still fierce. But alive. And I will never stop marveling at the miracle of that. And I will forever be grateful.

From the NICU to the Page

The NICU may have left some scars, yes. But it also planted seeds.

Every night in those quiet hospital hours, I scribbled down words—half hope, half story. I didn’t know then that those scraps would grow into something bigger: my children’s books.

Stories about bravery, about hope, about finding your grit when the world feels too overwhelming and too scary. Stories inspired by my tiny warrior and the community of fierce little humans and parents I met during that time.

Being Lola’s mama made me a writer. It gave me something to say. And now, through my books, I get to whisper to kids everywhere the same thing I whispered to her: You are stronger than you know. You are braver than you feel. You are fierce.

So if you are a NICU parent—past, present, or future—you are not alone. Your story matters. Your baby matters. And if you ever need a reminder that even the smallest of us can be unstoppable, I hope my books can be a little light for you and your little one.