“You need to come to the hospital immediately! It sounds like your water broke!” The words from the labor and delivery nurse hit me like a thunderbolt, and panic surged through me. Tears immediately welled up as I hung up the phone and tried calling my fiancé. He was at work and didn’t answer, so I left a trembling voicemail. My heart raced, my mind blurred, and fear threatened to swallow me whole. It was September 3, 2019—two months and eleven days before my baby girl’s due date—and nothing could have prepared me for what was about to unfold.
Just six months earlier, on March 13th, my fiancé and I had arrived in Ohio to visit my best friend and spend the week with them before his football game. I felt sluggish, off, and was waiting for my period, suspecting nothing unusual. That night, my best friend and I went to Walmart to grab pregnancy tests. Back at the apartment, I nervously told my fiancé I was going to take them. We were both anxious but confident—I convinced myself I was just tired from work and travel.
After three agonizing minutes, we checked the tests. He asked, “What do those two lines mean?” I stared blankly. We both froze, then nervously laughed and cried, whispering, “Is this real life?” Fear, excitement, and disbelief tangled together. At 23, wedding plans in motion, and unprepared for parenthood, my mind screamed, “My parents will kill me! I’m done for!” Yet, amidst the chaos, hope and wonder crept in. That night, we laid in bed dreaming about our baby, imagining life as parents despite the whirlwind of emotions.
For the most part, my pregnancy had been smooth. My baby checked out perfectly at every appointment. I had no morning sickness, no food aversions, and stayed active, continuing my weightlifting routine. People often said I was “glowing,” and it felt true—I had never felt healthier, stronger, or more beautiful. I embraced every moment, feeling blessed to carry life, unaware that this bliss would soon be interrupted.
September 2nd—1:18 AM. I woke to a strange, unmistakable leak. My heart sank. “My water… but I’m only 30 weeks!” I panicked but emailed my doctor anyway. I went to work that day, slowly leaking amniotic fluid, which didn’t smell like urine and sometimes stopped until I moved suddenly. I tried to convince myself it would resolve and bought panty liners, hoping for the best. Two days passed like this, full workdays and anxious waiting, until finally the call came: I needed to get to the hospital immediately.
Overwhelmed, I grabbed my shoes, a stack of panty liners, fed my dog, and drove to meet my parents, still waiting for my fiancé to call. I wandered the hospital halls, unsure where to go, leaking and growing increasingly anxious. Eventually, I found the labor and delivery unit. My parents arrived, my fiancé called he was on his way, and a doctor confirmed my worst fear: my water had broken. I was admitted, knowing I would not leave the hospital without my baby. I had only my phone, keys, and a pile of panty liners, unaware that the next time I left, I would be a mother—or so I thought.
That night began my new reality: strict bed rest, IV fluids, antibiotics to prevent infection, prenatal vitamins, and nightly injections to help my baby’s lungs mature in case she came early. Doctors hoped to keep her cooking until at least 34 weeks but settled for 32. Every two hours, my vitals and medications were checked. Blood draws came every morning before dawn. My fiancé rotated between home and the hospital to care for our dog, allowing me some comfort. Despite my growing discomfort, I focused on keeping my baby safe, grappling with guilt and fear. I later learned I had PROM—pre-labor rupture of membranes.
September 8th—4:00 AM. Pain unlike any I had ever felt surged through me. At 30 weeks and 5 days, labor had begun. I called my fiancé, unable to contain the pain. Nurses suggested it might be a pulled muscle, but I knew better. Within minutes, I was transferred to a labor and delivery room. He arrived just in time.
At 9:58 AM, our daughter, Nia Jade, entered the world. Tiny and fragile at 3 pounds 2.8 ounces and 15.5 inches long, she was whisked to the NICU. I caught only a fleeting glance before being sent back to my room. Her strong, defiant cry was the first sound that assured me she was fighting. Four hours later, I finally held her tiny hands, beginning the 27-day journey that would test and transform us.
NICU life was a rollercoaster. Nia was small, yet feisty and strong. She battled jaundice, but ate like a champ and gained weight steadily. Each visit—singing, talking, holding her skin-to-skin—was a mix of joy and heartbreak. I wept for the baby I longed to take home, feeling pangs of jealousy at mothers leaving the hospital with full-term babies. Yet, every day, Nia fought harder than most people do in years.
I battled postpartum depression, weighed down by NICU stress, mounting bills, and separation from my daughter. But on October 5th, 2019—one month and 12 days early—Nia came home at 4 pounds 8 ounces. Our family felt whole for the first time: no machines, no alarms, just us.
Today, Nia has taught us patience, faith, trust, and strength. Every milestone she achieves reminds us of her fierce beginning. She will always be my 30-week preemie, but she is also our miracle, a reminder that love, hope, and resilience can carry us through even the hardest storms. We look back on our journey with gratitude, knowing that the challenges we faced made every triumph sweeter. “Though she may be but little, she is fierce”—our Nia Jade.
