I want to start by saying this is our family’s story—one of struggles, setbacks, and triumphs. But this is just our story. Every NICU journey is different, and every family carries their story in their own way—some privately, some publicly.

 

I’m not sure I’d be comfortable sharing ours if we hadn’t left the NICU with our little angel, Aaliyah. If she hadn’t made it, maybe the sadness would’ve felt too heavy to speak about. I acknowledge that privilege with humility.

 

Aaliyah was born 16 weeks early—how? She was about the size of an Elf on the Shelf. Just 12 inches long and 1 lb. 10 oz. Could something that small even survive?

 

She was immediately placed on a ventilator. I remember standing with my in-laws, as my wife was still in recovery from her emergency C-section. Watching Aaliyah’s tiny chest rise and fall, unable to touch her because her skin was so fragile—even a gentle touch could cause pain.

 

I pressed my hand to the glass of her incubator. That was the closest I could get to my daughter. I did this for weeks. It was incredibly hard.

 

It took 21 days for my wife to hold her for the first time. It took me 49 days.

 

Complications continued. Some days she got worse. I would talk to her through the glass, telling her about the world waiting for her—if she was meant to stay. And every night, I prayed the same prayer: Lord, please don’t let her suffer.

 

Then, things took a sharp turn. They told us we were going to lose her.

 

Rules about visitors were lifted—normally, only two people were allowed at a time. This time, more were allowed. That’s when we knew.

 

Her kidneys were shutting down. She had massive infections. Her fever wouldn’t break. I held her tiny hand and told her I loved her. And as I left, I said the same thing I always said:“You keep fighting in here, and I’ll fight for you for the rest of your life.”And then, she squeezed my finger.

 

We asked for her to be baptized. Right after the baptism, she started peeing. It was a small sign—but in the NICU, every sign matters. Was this hope?

 

It was. There were still more surgeries, more scans, and many hard days ahead. But she was slowly recovering.

 

We kept counting down the milestones. Her due date—October 30th—came and went. Then Thanksgiving. Then Christmas. Then New Year’s. Each one passed with us still in the NICU.

 

And finally—mid-January—we got the news. After 185 days in the NICU… we were going home.

 

There is light at the end of the tunnel. But when you watch other babies go home before you, or holidays pass by while you’re still living day-to-day in the hospital, it can feel impossible to see that light. It gets cloudy.

 

The doctor who first received her on day one, the one who saw me down the hall from work and asked if I wanted to hold her for the first time—he was the same doctor there on our last day. He looked at us with tears in his eyes and said there were times he didn’t think she’d make it.

 

I couldn’t find the words. I just looked him in the eyes, and said: “Thank you.” He knew what I meant.

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There are too many ups and downs in those 185 days to capture all at once. But I want to thank every person and organization who made life a little more normal in an abnormal place—from Christmas carols and hot chocolate to Santa visiting the NICU, to nurses who brought light with their care, creativity, and kindness.

 

There is hope.

 

So to every NICU parent out there, just keep telling your angel: “ You keep fighting in here, and I will fight for you for the rest of your life.”