I nearly lost my life the day my son was born, a sentence that still feels strange to write even now, years later, when both of us are safe and growing and surrounded by ordinary days. At the time, nothing felt ordinary. The world narrowed to fluorescent hallways, whispered medical conversations, and the constant awareness that things could change in a heartbeat. For ten long days, my son and I remained in the hospital, physically close yet emotionally worlds apart. He lay in the neonatal intensive care unit, surrounded by monitors, tubes, and careful hands, while I stayed in a small, quiet room down the hall, recovering and waiting.

I was awake far more than I slept, my mind refusing rest as fear filled every corner of the silence. I was completely alone. No family sitting beside my bed. No familiar voices reminding me of life beyond the hospital walls. Just the steady hum of machines, the ticking of a clock that seemed to grow louder at night, and the fear that crept in hardest after midnight, when exhaustion stripped away any remaining sense of control. During the day, there were doctors and nurses moving with purpose, updates delivered in careful tones, and moments when hope flickered.