I remember having my first baby, lying in the hospital bed with her tiny crib beside me. The first night, a nurse gently suggested taking her to the nursery so I could sleep, but I said no. I wasn’t ready to let her out of my sight.
The next night, exhausted, I finally agreed. But the nurse’s face went pale.
“Your baby is supposed to stay with you,” she said softly. “The nursery was temporarily closed this afternoon due to a staffing issue.”
She chose her words carefully so she wouldn’t scare me, but my heart still clenched. Nothing was wrong, she reassured me—they just couldn’t safely monitor the infants unless every station was properly staffed.
That moment stayed with me. Not because of fear, but because I realized how deeply my daughter’s tiny breaths had already become the center of my world.
Over the next days, I watched life swirl around us—nurses rushing, anxious whispers from new parents, lullabies floating through the hall like a soft current. I lived in a strange balance between awe and exhaustion, learning every sound she made like a new language.
When we were discharged, the outside world felt sharper, bigger. I held her close, more protective than I ever imagined.
Years later, I still think of that nurse’s face—her compassion, her understanding. She wasn’t just giving instructions. She respected how fragile those first days of parenthood truly are.
That night taught me the kind of love that reshapes you, breath by breath.
