It was 3 a.m., the night after I gave birth. My baby was in the NICU, and my body felt foreign—stitched, heavy, hollow. I couldn’t sleep. I buzzed the nurse’s button, not knowing what I needed. She came in quietly, adjusted my blanket, and sat beside me. “You don’t have to be strong tonight,” she said. Her voice was soft, steady. I didn’t cry, but I felt something shift.
I asked how she stayed so calm around all this pain—the crying, the fear, the waiting. She said, “You learn to love the little wins. Every heartbeat, every breath—it’s something to hold on to.” Her words didn’t fix anything, but they gave me something to cling to. I nodded, grateful for her presence.
When I mentioned my baby’s name, she froze for just a second. Then she smiled—that tight kind of smile people give when they’re trying not to break. “That was my son’s name,” she said softly. “He didn’t make it past his first week.” I didn’t know what to say. I just reached for her hand, and she let me hold it.
We sat in silence. She didn’t say it would get easier. She didn’t make promises. She just stayed with me, her hand warm in mine, until I fell asleep. That silence held more comfort than any words could. It felt like someone understood the ache without needing to explain it away.
When I woke up, my baby’s monitor had been moved closer to my room. There was a note on my tray: “Hold on to every breath. You’re doing great, Mom.” I clutched it like a lifeline. I never saw her again, but I still have that note—creased, tear-stained, and truer than any comfort I’ve ever been given.
I don’t know her name. I don’t know her story beyond that moment. But I remember her kindness, her quiet strength, and the way she made space for my pain. That night, she gave me something I didn’t know I needed: permission to feel, and a reminder that even in the darkest hours, there are people who show up and hold your hand.
