A Letter to the NICU Mom, From a Former NICU Mom

Dear NICU Mom,

I know this isn't how you imagined meeting your baby.

You didn't imagine not seeing them when they were born. You probably never pictured the first time you saw them would be when you are wheeled through the NICU in a hospital bed. Or waiting to hold them for the first time. You didn't imagine someone else telling you when you could hold your own baby, when you could feed them, when you could change their diaper, or when you could finally pick them up without asking first.

There are so many things about becoming a mom that you expect to feel natural. But in the NICU, almost nothing does.

Maybe this is something you haven't said out loud. Sometimes, in the NICU, it can feel as though your baby isn't really yours.

Of course you know they're your baby. You love them more than you knew you could love another person. But everything feels foreign. There are wires and monitors and alarms. There are nurses who know your baby's schedule better than you do. There are doctors making decisions and machines doing things you don't completely understand.

You aren't the one deciding when your baby eats or sleeps. You might have to ask permission before picking them up. And somewhere in all of that, it can be hard to feel like their mom. It can be hard to feel like the person who is supposed to know them best. You know they're exactly where they need to be. You are grateful for the people caring for them. And you still want so badly to take your baby home.

Both can be true.

And then comes nighttime, one of the hardest times. You sit beside the isolette or crib knowing that eventually you're going to have to leave. Maybe you tell yourself your baby is in the safest place possible. You remind yourself that nurses are watching them. That someone will be there if they cry. That they'll be cared for while you're gone.

But none of that makes walking out of those doors without your baby feel normal.

You go home when every part of you is telling you that your baby should be coming with you. You walk into your house without them. Maybe you pass the empty bassinet or the nursery you thought they would already be sleeping in. And then somehow, you wake up the next morning and do it all over again.

Life starts to revolve around things you never imagined would matter so much. A few more milliliters in a bottle can feel enormous. A little weight gain feels like winning the lottery. One less wire is worth celebrating.

And then, just when you think you're getting closer to home, something changes. A feeding doesn't go well. An alarm goes off. Your baby needs more support again. The discharge date you had quietly started hoping for suddenly feels farther away.

The NICU is filled with small wins and big setbacks. Hope and fear can live within minutes of each other. All of it is hard. All of it matters.

And then one day, it's over.

I know it probably doesn't feel like it right now. When you're living from one feeding to the next, one doctor's update to the next, one day to the next, the NICU can feel like your whole world. But one day, you will leave.

And this time, your baby will come with you.

You'll buckle that tiny baby into the car seat and walk out of the hospital together. You'll bring them into your home. And suddenly, no one will tell you when you're allowed to pick up your baby. You decide when they eat. You change the diapers. You give the baths. You comfort them when they cry. You make the decisions.

You become the primary caregiver you always were, even when the NICU made it difficult to feel that way.

And yes, it might be terrifying at first. After spending so much time surrounded by monitors and nurses, taking your baby home can feel like another huge leap into the unknown. But little by little, you'll find your way together.

And then those tiny babies grow. They learn to hold their heads up. They roll over. They sit. They crawl. They walk. They start meeting milestones that once felt impossibly far away.

And somehow, they're one.

Then they're five.

And if you're me, one day you look up and they're nine.

You look at these kids talking and laughing and running around your house, and sometimes it's almost impossible to connect them to those tiny babies surrounded by wires and monitors.

But you remember.

Of course you remember.

Right now, the pictures might hurt. You may look at them and immediately remember the fear. The helplessness. The alarms. The uncertainty. The ache of leaving without your baby.

But someday, you may pull those pictures up and notice something different. You may smile looking at them. You'll see how impossibly tiny they were. You'll remember the nurses you loved. You'll remember the first time you held them. You'll remember every little victory.

And instead of only seeing how scared you were, you'll see how strong you were.

You'll see how strong your baby was. You'll see how far you've all come. The NICU will always be part of your story. I'm not sure an experience like that ever completely leaves you. But it won't always feel the way it does right now.

One day, the NICU won't be your everyday life. It will be a place you remember. And the tiny baby you're watching so closely today will be bigger than you can possibly imagine right now.

So for today, celebrate the grams. Celebrate the milliliters. Celebrate every wire that comes off and every tiny step toward home.

Cry when you need to cry. Let it be hard.

You don't have to be grateful every second just because you know your baby is receiving good care.

You can be grateful and heartbroken.

Hopeful and terrified.

Strong and completely exhausted.

All of it can be true.

And from one NICU mom who can now look back nine years later, I want you to know this:

One day, you will see just how far you've both come.

With love,
A former NICU mom

If your NICU experience continues to feel painful, frightening, or close even after you're home, you don't have to carry it by yourself. Birth and NICU experiences can stay with us long after the medical crisis has ended. Therapy can offer a safe place to process what happened and make room for everything you experienced along the way.

Disclaimer: This blog is for general educational purposes only and is not medical or mental health advice. Reading this does not create a therapist-client relationship. I provide therapy only to clients located in Ohio at the time of service. If you are in crisis, call or text 988 (Suicide & Crisis Lifeline) or dial your local emergency number right away.