NICU Mama, I See You: A Letter of Support for NICU Moms

This one is for the mom (or dad) sitting next to an incubator right now. The ones who have been dreaming of the day they have their baby in their arms, and are instead facing the unknown in a room where you have to ask permission even to touch your baby.

I see you.

Being less than a week away from the birth of my next baby has made me reflect a lot lately on my experience with the last one.

I can’t help but think back on that time, as her birth story has truly impacted my experience this time around in a big way.

So much so that I actually sought out therapy to help deal with all the buried trauma and emotions I was struggling with.

I got pregnant with my beautiful daughter when my son was about 2. In fact, we got pregnant with her so quickly it completely caught me off guard—but we were thrilled.

Even more so when we found out we were having a girl at our 20-week ultrasound, to round out our little family.

That’s one of the last happy memories I remember having during that pregnancy.

Very shortly after that ultrasound, I was at home alone with my son when I felt a pop. I knew immediately I was bleeding—and I was bleeding a lot.

I rushed to the hospital thinking I had lost her, but thankfully that turned out not to be the case.

Instead, I was diagnosed with two large subchorionic hemorrhages. Basically, I was bleeding in two places under my placenta—and she was in danger.

We were nowhere near term at this point.

The doctors had no explanation. They said it was the type of trauma they would normally see with a car accident or other abdominal injury—but I had none of that. No answers for why this happened.

What followed were weeks of bed rest, constant doctor’s appointments, and a whole lot of fear and uncertainty.

I was hospitalized twice for bleeding—the final time only a couple of days before her birth.

Then, on Friday the 13th that year (yes, really), I woke up in the early morning hours in a pool of blood. I was hemorrhaging.

When I was assessed at the hospital, my nurse later told me she’d never seen so much blood coming from a woman who hadn’t already given birth.

I had a placental abruption, and my beautiful daughter was born at 30 weeks, weighing 3 lbs 2 oz—the tiniest, most perfect little baby you’ve ever seen.

When I tell you this wasn’t the experience I had planned, that is an understatement. She came so quickly that my husband hadn’t even arrived yet after arranging care for our son.

A code pink was called, the room filled with people—and then my baby was gone.

I didn’t get to see her again for almost 24 hours. And when I did, she was behind glass, hooked up to an unimaginable number of wires, and I wasn’t allowed to touch her.

If this is you right now, I know the pain you’re feeling. The uncertainty.

The guilt.

I really felt this was somehow my fault—that if I hadn’t lifted that one box that was maybe too heavy, or had that glass of wine before knowing I was pregnant, maybe this wouldn’t have happened.

You can drive yourself crazy with the what-ifs.

I was discharged home from the hospital 24 hours after her birth.

And I had to leave her behind.

The pain of that moment is indescribable to people who haven’t been there.

When I was discussing my fears for my current pregnancy with my therapist, I finally realized that my biggest fear was reliving that moment.

I never really worried that she would die. I don’t know why, but that fear didn’t live in me.

But being separated from my baby was one of the worst things that has ever happened to me.

She was in the NICU for 7 weeks.

49 days.

I was there 9 hours a day for 48 of them—including the day after being sent home.

I carried my healing postpartum body one hour each way on the subway every day for 7 weeks to sit at her bedside as long as I could. If I didn’t have a two-year-old at home who also needed me, I probably would have refused to leave.

I was really emotional and angry those first days. I cried constantly.

Partially because of the hormones.

But also because I was grieving.

I was grieving the last weeks of my pregnancy I didn’t get. The birth experience that wasn’t anything like what I wanted.

I had to ask permission to hold her at first. I was also afraid to hold her—she was so tiny and fragile. What if I hurt her?

She didn’t feel like my baby. Not at first.

But I’m here to tell you, Mama—things got better.

She got a little stronger every day. And so did I.

I learned the NICU routine. I got to know the other moms around me, and the incredible team of nurses and doctors who were so dedicated to her and to me.

Day by day, she grew. We graduated to wearing clothing, then to not needing the incubator. Eventually, at 34 weeks gestational age, we were able to tentatively start trying to breastfeed a little.

On day 49, after 7 weeks sitting at that bedside, they told me I could bring her home.

That was probably the best—and also one of the scariest—days of my life.

After so long having her constantly monitored, it was a scary thought to have her at home without all that support.

But I also couldn’t wait.

So we took her home.

We officially started our life as a family of four.

She’s seven now. And you’d never know how fraught her first days were.

Although she’s pretty dramatic even now, so maybe her birth was just a preview of that.

I know you’re sitting there with so much fear in your heart about the days ahead, but I’m here to give you hope.

This too shall pass.

Your baby is stronger than you could possibly imagine.

Trust your healthcare team—and your baby.

Trust yourself too.

You’ve got this.

Sending all the love in my heart to both you and your baby.

—Fellow NICU parent,
The Bookish Mama

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If this spoke to you…

If you’re a NICU mama reading this, I want you to know you are not alone in this. Not in the fear, not in the exhaustion, and not in the love you’re pouring into your baby every single day.

When you’re in the middle of your NICU journey and looking for a way to process everything you’re going through, I created a NICU keepsake journal designed for moments just like this.

A place to write, remember, and hold onto the pieces of this story — even the hard ones.

You can take a look at it here if it feels like something you need

If any part of this felt familiar, I’d love to hear from you. Feel free to share your story, your experience, or even just where you are right now in your journey in the comments. This space is for you 🤍

And if you’re looking for more support, stories, or a little comfort from someone who gets it, you can read more here:

• Why I Went to Therapy While Pregnant (And Why It Helped)
• 4 Things I Definitely Won’t Miss About Being Pregnant

You can also join my email list for more honest motherhood stories, bookish moments, and gentle reminders that you’re doing better than you think.