Nobody Prepares You for Missing a Baby Who Is Still Here
My son was born at 24+4 weeks via caesarean. I had no idea whether he would survive. I’ll never forget the moment I heard his two tiny cries and my sweet boy, Josiah, was lifted up for the briefest of moments for me to lay eyes on him for the very first time. He was quickly whisked away to the waiting humidicrib though. I caught another glimpse of him as they wheeled him past to take him to NICU, but then I would not see him again until hours later, when they wheeled me up from recovery.
The first real look at my son was through the walls of a humidicrib. Josiah was wrapped in plastic and had wires and lines everywhere. He was intubated to support his breathing and had a feeding tube as well. But there he was — tiny and mighty. I couldn’t believe how small his feet were. I got to touch them on that first meeting, but that was it. No skin-to-skin. No holding my baby yet. Just the lightest touch on his minuscule foot.
The Grief of Separation
The enormity of the separation hit me later that night, and continued to hit me throughout our NICU journey. My son was alive — it was a miracle — yet I was grieving. Grieving the loss of half my pregnancy. Grieving the birth experience I had imagined. Grieving not being able to hold my son when he was born. Not being able to be with him or see him whenever I needed. Crying in the middle of the night while I was expressing milk, still in the maternity ward, while Josh was upstairs in NICU. Crying because I wasn’t feeding Josiah directly. He wasn’t with me. It frustrated me no end that I was in too much pain to last very long at Josiah’s bedside in those early days.
I remember those many nights in our little carer’s accommodation room — an old hospital ward. I’d be awake multiple times through the night to express milk for Josiah. I was sore. I was tired. I was missing him desperately. It felt unnatural to walk away from him every night, to leave him behind. I printed out photos to stick on the wall beside the chair in the room so I could at least look into Josiah’s sweet face as I tried to provide for him.
Learning to Love Through Barriers
I loved every moment we got to touch Josiah, to hold his little hands or feet. Yet I felt the sting and pain of reduced touch or no touch at all — aching to comfort, to hold, to heal, and not being able to. I even felt jealous of the extra time and touch the medical team had with Josiah, being able to care for him in ways I couldn’t. I questioned whether we would bond properly. Would he recognise me? My voice? There were already so many other voices and faces in the mix.
Here I was, a mother, yet I had to ask permission to touch my child. A child I would not even get to hold for 11 days. Those 11 days felt endless. I felt incomplete, empty, aching, and desperate to hold my beautiful boy. And even once we finally started getting cuddles, it wasn’t every day. No cuddle was ever enough.
No parent should ever have to experience this type of separation. This sort of learning to love and care for your child through barriers of plastic, wires, waiting, and permission. Yet so many parents do.
When Joy and Grief Exist Together
The outside world might celebrate that your child is alive. “At least he’s alive,” they say. “Don’t worry, you’ll be home with him before you know it.” Except we never would be. And even if Josiah had come home, separation from your child on this level is traumatic and unforgettable. Every dream and expectation of what birth and that newborn bubble would look and feel like had already been ripped away.
There are parents all over the world tonight walking back to empty hospital rooms or driving home without their baby in the car seat they had prepared. Parents expressing milk beside photos instead of bassinets. Parents learning how to love their child through humidicribs, wires, waiting, and permission.
If that is you too, I see you.
And I know how possible it is to feel overwhelming love, relief, and gratitude that your child is here, while also grieving everything that has already been lost.
This essay is one small part of a much larger story. I’ll be sharing more of Josiah’s journey in an upcoming multi-author book releasing July 2026.