It started with a phone call.
In December 2020, my wife got sick. What we thought might be a difficult pregnancy complication turned into a terrifying hospital admission and a diagnosis of severe preeclampsia. Days later our first daughter entered the world at 26 weeks, weighing 1 pound 10 ounces.
She was smaller than my hand.
We had no roadmap. No community. No one who could sit with us and say I know exactly how this feels. We had doctors and nurses who were incredible at their jobs — and we had each other — but we were otherwise completely alone in an experience that is impossible to describe to anyone who hasn't lived it.
102 days later, we brought our daughter home.
Today she is five years old and absolutely extraordinary. Other than being a little smaller than some of her classmates, you would never know. You would never guess that she spent the first three and a half months of her life fighting for every single day. She is proof that the hardest beginnings can lead to the most beautiful stories.
Then Christmas 2025 arrived.
History repeated itself.
My wife got sick again. Another hospital admission. Another devastating diagnosis of preeclampsia. And days later our second daughter was born at 23 weeks — even earlier than her sister — weighing just 12 ounces.
She is in the NICU right now as I write this.
We know the NICU this time. We know the sounds, the monitors, the rhythms, the language. We know the nurses move with purpose and that alarms don't always mean catastrophe. We know to focus on more good days than bad days and to brace ourselves for the steps back that come without warning.
But knowing the NICU doesn't make it easier to watch your daughter struggle with things her sister never had to face. It doesn't make it easier to stand at her bedside and feel the most helpless feeling in the world — wanting nothing more than to hold her, comfort her, and make it better, knowing that right now the best thing you can do is simply show up.
So I show up. Every day.
Why Between Beeps exists.
After our first NICU journey I kept thinking about the one thing that was missing — not medical information, not clinical resources, but a place where I could sit down with other NICU parents and just talk. Casually. Honestly. Without having to explain the unexplainable to someone who hadn't been there.
A place where someone could say I'm terrified and the person next to them would just nod because they already know.
Between Beeps is that place.
It's built for the parents sitting in that chair right now, staring at monitors and trying to decode a language nobody taught them. It's built for the parents who just got home and are trying to figure out who they are on the other side of it. And it's built for every family somewhere in between — navigating the uncertainty, the grief, the love, and the fierce hope that exists in those quiet moments between the beeps.
I'm not a doctor or a medical professional. I'm a two-time NICU parent who is living this alongside you — right now, today — and I built the community I needed but couldn't find.
What you'll find here.
Plain-language education — every medical term, procedure, and milestone explained the way a fellow parent would explain it, not a textbook.
Honest emotional support — the feelings nobody warns you about, written by someone who has felt them too.
A real community — because the most healing thing about hard experiences is finding the people who understand them without explanation.
Practical resources — guides, checklists, and tools for every stage of the NICU journey and beyond.
You don't have to figure this out alone.
Whatever brought you here — a diagnosis, a delivery you didn't expect, a baby fighting harder than you knew was possible — you found this community for a reason.
Pull up a chair. Stay as long as you need.
We'll be here between the beeps.
— Louie
Founder, Between Beeps NICU parent. Twice.