Five days.
That’s how long we had before everything changed again.
Just when I thought I was adjusting to this new orbit—figuring out feedings, nappies, the rhythm of her breathing when she falls asleep on my chest—the floor dropped out.
She needed heart surgery.
Those words don’t land gently, even when spoken by calm doctors with good plans. They don’t land softly when they apply to someone who hasn’t even been in the world for a week.
No matter how brave you think you are, nothing prepares you for the long walk down from the NICU to the surgery suites.
The world shrinks fast in those moments. Time slows down, and priorities realign themselves. It doesn’t matter what’s on your calendar. It doesn’t matter what you thought today was going to be. The only thing that matters is that tiny heartbeat and the people trying to make sure it keeps going.
She made it through.
Her strength is something I don’t have words for yet. She doesn’t know how small she is. Doesn’t know how high the odds felt. She just fought. And the people around her, the nurses, the surgeons, the quiet hands and steady minds all fought for her. I will never be able to thank them enough.
Five days ago, I thought I was beginning a journey. Now I realise we were already in the middle of something much bigger. And we made it through the first storm together.
There will be more, I’m sure. But now I know what she’s capable of. And what we’re capable of, too.
This wasn’t how I imagined the first week would go. But I’m starting to understand: we don’t get to write the whole story in advance. We just show up and do the best we can.
We keep loving. We keep holding on. We keep moving forward.