The night my son was born, I came closer to death than I ever had before, though I didn’t fully understand it at the time. Labor had begun with ordinary discomfort, the kind every expecting mother is told to prepare for, but it quickly spiraled into something far more frightening. Hours blurred together in waves of pain, exhaustion, and fear. My body felt as though it was tearing itself apart, and every breath became an effort. When complications arose, doctors rushed in and out of the room, voices urgent, faces serious. I remember gripping the bed rails, praying silently, begging my body to hold on just a little longer. By the time my son finally arrived, I was barely conscious, floating somewhere between relief and terror. Instead of being overwhelmed by joy, I was rushed into recovery, weak, disoriented, and uncertain whether I would even make it through the night. For ten long days afterward, I lay in a hospital bed, surrounded by machines, medication, and sterile white walls. My family lived hours away and couldn’t come often. My husband was overseas for work, unable to return immediately. I was physically broken, emotionally shattered, and completely alone in a way I had never experienced before.