Hand in hand, heart with her
Before I became a mother, I thought I knew what those first weeks would look like. I pictured holding my baby close, learning her sounds, feeding her, watching her sleep safely in her crib. I never imagined spending those first weeks in the NICU, sitting beside machines, waiting for monitors to beep in the right rhythm, and holding her tiny hand through the incubator walls. It was a time of fear and grief, but also of small victories, quiet acts of love, and a deeper connection than I ever thought possible. I share this for other parents who have felt alone in the NICU, and to remind myself of how far we have come — hand in hand, heart with her.
Our first weeks in the NICU
After visiting her for the very first time, I was brought back to my room. I had never felt so alone. This was not how I had imagined it…
Why, God? Why us? Why me?
What had I done to deserve this? Could I have prevented it? Had I been careful enough? Was this my fault?
All these thoughts kept spinning in my mind. I cried so much. I was broken. I was in pain.
The days that followed were a blur of emotions. Imani lay in the NICU, surrounded by machines and nurses watching her closely. Every beep from the monitor reminded us of how fragile her condition was. My husband and I felt powerless, trapped in our grief. We longed to be near her, to touch her, to comfort her.
Thankfully, the nurses were incredibly supportive and gave us the chance to be with her — to hold her tiny hands and softly tell her how much we loved her.
The weeks in the NICU were filled with uncertainty. Many tests were done — and eventually we received the final confirmation: Imani was diagnosed not only with the rare condition, duodenal atresia, but also with esophageal atresia type A.
My heart sank. We had already known from earlier scans that something was wrong, but having it confirmed in black and white… hit twice as hard. The chances of her having both conditions at once were incredibly small. My husband and I looked at each other in disbelief… How could this be?
Even the surgeons couldn’t give us an explanation. It was, as they said… pure bad luck.
The days that followed felt like an emotional rollercoaster. What now? Our lives would never be the same. Every day felt like a new battle. My husband and I tried to stay strong for each other — but the fear and love for our daughter were constantly intertwined. We started learning everything we could about her conditions and what we, as parents, could do to support her as best we could. What helped us through it all was the support from family and friends. Their love, their encouragement… carried us through the darkest days.
Two days after she was born, her first surgery was scheduled: the operation for her duodenal atresia.
Imani was so tiny. She weighed barely 1900 grams. We were terrified that she might not survive the operation. The surgeon — thankfully a very experienced doctor — reassured us: “Everything will go well,” he said. Still… the fear remained. The uncertainty gnawed at us.
The operation lasted three long hours — the longest hours of our lives. We sat waiting for the surgeon’s phone call. When the phone finally rang… I hardly dared to answer. I was so afraid of hearing bad news.
But when the surgeon told us that everything had gone well… we felt such an overwhelming sense of relief. Without hesitation — full of hope — we jumped in the car and rushed to the hospital, to our little girl.
Because Imani was born without a functioning esophagus, the doctors decided to place a gastrostomy tube after her surgery. This would allow her to receive nutrition directly into her stomach.
Breastfeeding was something I had dreamed of. That quiet closeness, skin to skin, giving her what she needed with my own body — it was such a deep part of how I imagined the beginning of motherhood.
Even though I couldn’t breastfeed her, I still wanted her to have my milk.
For six months, I pumped every day — sometimes through tears, often through exhaustion — so that Imani could still receive what my body had made for her. It was the one thing I could do. A quiet act of love. A way to still feel close to her, even if I couldn’t hold her at my breast.
Feeding her this way looked different than I had imagined, but it still came from the same place: Love.
After a few weeks, Imani began to stabilize. She was a fighter — that much was clear. The doctors were cautiously optimistic about her progress, and slowly we began to feel hope again. Every small step she took — breathing on her own or responding well to treatments — felt like a victory. We had learned to appreciate the little things. To find moments of joy in what used to seem so normal. A glance, a breath, a day without complications… They now meant so much to us.
“Hand in hand, heart with her — our love fought alongside her.”
Looking back on our first weeks in the NICU, I realize how much we learned about love in those quiet, uncertain days. We learned that love sometimes looks like sitting for hours by her bed, waiting and watching. Sometimes it looks like pumping milk through exhaustion and tears because it’s the only thing you can give. Sometimes it’s letting yourself hope, even when you are terrified.
It wasn’t the beginning of motherhood I had imagined, but it was still motherhood. It was learning to celebrate small victories, to find joy in the tiniest signs of progress, and to hold on to each other when fear felt overwhelming.
We are still on this journey, and there are still many unknowns ahead. But one thing I know for certain: our love will always fight alongside her, hand in hand, heart with her.
During those long NICU days, providing milk for Imani became one way I could still care for her when everything else felt out of control. Pumping wasn’t always easy, but using a hands-free pump allowed me to express milk while sitting next to her incubator, without being tied to wires or the wall. It gave me a small piece of freedom during days that were otherwise heavy and uncertain.
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