Coming Home: 140 Days Later
Some moments in life change you forever, not all at once, but breath by breath, tear by tear. What we lived through in those early months with our daughter was more than medical procedures and hospital days. It was a season of deep surrender, of learning to hope without guarantees, and of holding onto love when fear filled the room.
This chapter is not about what went wrong, it’s about what it took to keep moving forward. About the quiet courage of a baby who kept choosing life, and two parents who kept showing up for her, even when the road ahead was filled with unknowns.
After Imani’s critical condition, the days in the NICU stretched endlessly. She had to remain in a medically induced coma longer than expected, giving her tiny body the time it needed to heal. Her brain activity was closely monitored, and we learned she had experienced seizures. Medication was started immediately to protect her developing brain.
My husband and I lived in constant fear. We wondered how she would wake up. Would there be lasting damage? Would she remember us? Would we ever see her smile again?
Her awakening was slow, stretched across days that felt like weeks. But children are remarkably resilient. Imani recovered more quickly than we ever dared to hope. Each day, she gave us subtle signs of progress, and this time, there were no new complications. It was a relief that words can’t quite capture.
The moment she opened her eyes and met our gaze, a wave of gratitude washed over us. Her monitors showed stable, strong values. Her heart rate and oxygen saturation were good. For the first time in what felt like forever, we could breathe again.
Her esophagus had finally been reconnected. A feeding tube supported her recovery, but a few days later, she was allowed to taste a tiny drop of my milk, expressed just for her. That moment was sacred.
Learning to Feed Again
The first bottle attempts were difficult. Babies with esophageal atresia must relearn the coordination of sucking, swallowing, and breathing. Imani was no longer a newborn, her natural reflexes had faded. But she persevered, and so did we.
Once she was strong enough, I was allowed to try direct breastfeeding. I was nervous, but so hopeful. I emptied both breasts before placing her to avoid overwhelming her. Still, she struggled to latch.
We tried a Medela nipple shield, but I found it too wide and clumsy. That evening, I searched for something that mimicked a bottle teat and found it. It took time, but with that shield, Imani latched. She was truly nursing. I cried. The best purchase ever, and one I would recommend to any mama struggling to breastfeed.
“The right tools, patience, and support can make even the smallest steps feel like miracles.”
Little Victories
Week by week, the tubes and sedatives disappeared. Every removed line felt like a victory. The silence of the monitors became a song of hope. And then, the news we had prayed for: we could move to the mother-baby unit.
After five long months of not sleeping beside her, I could finally hold her without tubes, wires, or machines. Time there felt suspended. Eight days, maybe more. But what mattered was that we were finally bonding. Mother, father, and child like she had just been born, even though she was almost six months old.
Coming Home
And then, it happened. 140 days after her birth, we took her home.
Our hearts were full. We didn’t return the same people who had entered that NICU. We came back changed, scarred, but grateful beyond measure. And ready to begin again at home, with Imani.
Looking back, it’s hard to believe how far we’ve come. The weight of those early days still lingers in our bones, but it no longer holds us down. It’s been replaced by something deeper, a kind of strength you don’t ask for, but gain by walking through fire with open hands and an open heart.
We know now that healing doesn’t always follow a straight line. That milestones can be tiny and still mean everything. And that a homecoming is more than walking out of a hospital, it’s reclaiming the life you’ve fought for, together.
This story is ours, but if you’ve ever sat by a hospital bed, whispered a shaky prayer, or hoped for just one more heartbeat then maybe, in some way, it’s yours too.
The nipple shield that finally helped Imani latch is one I truly stand by. If you’re curious, you can find it listed along with other tools that supported us on our ZENZIN page.
