“You’re probably going to have this baby today. Drive over to the ER, let them know you’re in labor, and they will admit you.”
The words felt impossible. I was 32 weeks pregnant with our first baby—healthy, with no complications—and suddenly we were out of town, at a hospital I had never been to, being told everything was about to change. I had developed an infection— which triggered the contractions and caused my water to leak. My husband, Riley, and I left the office and I broke down in the car. This couldn’t be happening. Would the baby be OK? What could I do to stop it? I felt completely helpless.
I was admitted to labor and delivery, and after about twenty-four hours I was stabilized enough to be moved to the antepartum floor. I was required to stay completely horizontal, unable to get up even to use the bathroom. I received steroid shots to help my baby’s lungs and a magnesium sulfate drip to slow my contractions. The medication gave me a crushing migraine; I lay there unable to read or watch anything – just waiting.
I had occasional visitors, but I tried to play it off as if my situation were no big deal. I didn’t want to seem dramatic or needy. Riley was away at medical school interviews, and I didn’t want to inconvenience anyone.
Throughout that week, specialists came in and carefully outlined what it could mean for my son to be born so early. It was terrifying. I was pregnant with my first child and had never once imagined a NICU. I knew almost nothing about babies. I hadn’t babysat much. I had read parenting books and hoped that somehow the information would stick when the time came.
About a week after I had been admitted, labor began again, and this time couldn’t be stopped. I delivered Johnny in an operating room because of the high likelihood of a C-section. In the end, I gave birth vaginally—with an epidural, Pitocin, and a vacuum. I remember the overwhelming relief of hearing him cry, but I barely saw him before the nurses took him to the NICU. I asked Riley to go with him.
Afterward, the room emptied. Johnny was born at 7:07 a.m., right during a shift change, and I was left alone for a while—my body suddenly empty, trying to understand what had just happened. Not having my baby with me felt wrong. The fact that I had a baby at all felt unreal. I couldn’t picture him because I had barely seen him, and that made me feel like a terrible mother.
When I was finally wheeled into the NICU that night, I remember wondering if everyone was certain this tiny baby was mine. I held him for the first time, flooded with emotions—relief, shock, love, fear—trying to connect while still processing what my body and mind had just endured.
The weeks that followed were exhausting, but deeply formative. The NICU nurses were extraordinary. They taught me how to care for my child and, just as importantly, how to advocate for him. At first it felt unnatural—who was I to question anyone? I felt constant imposter syndrome. But as I watched Johnny fight and grow stronger, I realized I had to be strong too. He didn’t have anyone else. I was it. I was his mother.
The first time I left the hospital without him, after being discharged myself, I sobbed. It felt profoundly wrong—leaving such a tiny baby behind in a massive, anonymous building. I felt guilty showering, guilty eating, guilty being anywhere other than by his side. I rushed back as quickly as I could.
Johnny’s NICU had private rooms, which felt like a small mercy. I slept there, leaving only to shower, change clothes, and take my law school final exams. I didn’t understand balance yet. I just knew I couldn’t leave him alone.
One of the best moments of early parenthood came a year later, when we reunited Johnny with our favorite NICU nurse. Seeing him as a chubby, thriving one-year-old—so different from the fragile preemie she once cared for—felt like a full-circle moment for all of us.
The NICU taught me that motherhood doesn’t always begin with confidence or instinct. Sometimes it begins with fear, surrender, and showing up anyway. If you find yourself in a place you never imagined—overwhelmed, scared, and unsure – you are not failing. You are becoming. Becoming a mother is not about being ready—it’s about being willing. Motherhood has a way of forging strength you didn’t know you had. One day, you may look back and realize that the hardest beginning shaped you in the ways that mattered most.
