I didn’t know how to hold a baby with one hand and a funeral program with the other. The NICU felt like punishment, a room where miracles and losses shared the same fluorescent light. Yet each time I hesitated at the door, I heard the nurse’s voice echoing inside me: “Don’t quit. Your little one still needs you.” She never insisted I be strong. She simply stood close enough that my shaking didn’t feel like failure.
She translated numbers and charts into words I could bear, guided my pen through paperwork blurred by tears, and reminded me to breathe when the machines screamed. Years later, I saw her again, cradling another fragile life as a foster mother. In that moment I understood: her gift wasn’t just comfort. By believing I could live through unspeakable loss, she quietly taught my broken heart how to choose tomorrow.
