NICU Life After a Loss: Why Some Parents Are Grateful Just to Be There

Some parents walk in and feel grateful.

Some feel both at the exact same time. And unless you've lived it, that's a hard thing to understand.

When people find out your baby is in the NICU, they feel bad for you. They say sorry. They tell you they're praying. They look at you with that face — the one that says "I can't imagine what you're going through."

And they mean it. They really do. But what they don't always see is that for some of us, the NICU isn't the worst thing that's happened. It's the thing that happened after the worst thing. And being there means something very different when you've already been through what came before.

We experienced multiple miscarriages before our NICU stays. We lost pregnancies that we wanted. We grieved babies we never got to meet. And during this pregnancy — our daughter was supposed to be a twin. We lost one.

So when we walk into the NICU, we're not just scared. We're grateful. Because being in the NICU means we have a chance. It means our baby is here. It means she is well enough to be cared for. It means she is alive and fighting and surrounded by people who know how to help her.

Not every pregnancy we've had gave us that.

The losses absolutely suck. To say the least.

But like many things in life, losing makes you appreciate the wins so much more. Every milestone hits differently when you know what it feels like to not get one. Every gram of weight gained feels like a victory when you know what it's like to have nothing to weigh at all. Every day in the NICU — even the hard ones — feels like a gift when you know the alternative.

We cherish every day. Not because every day is good. But because every day is a day we have her.

That's what loss does to you in the NICU. It doesn't make the fear go away. It doesn't make the setbacks easier. It doesn't make the drive home without your baby any less heartbreaking. But it gives you a perspective that changes how you carry all of it. You carry it with gratitude underneath the grief. And that combination is something that only people who've been through both can understand.

The NICU is a shared space. Your baby is surrounded by other babies, other families, other stories. And not all of those stories are going in the same direction.

It's hard being in a room where you're next to babies and parents who are dealing with setbacks. It's hard when your baby is having a good day — the nurses are smiling and talking about how well she's doing — all while her NICU neighbor and their parents are battling something worse. You hear it. You see it. And you feel guilty for your good day because you know what their bad day feels like.

It's especially hard when you see twins.

I still have a hard time with that. Seeing two babies together, two of everything, two names on the wall — it reminds me of what we lost. Of who should be here and isn't. Of the version of this journey that was supposed to look different. It sucks.

You see other families experiencing losses and your heart hurts because you know the roller coaster. And although their roller coaster may not be the same as yours, you know the effects it takes on a parent and a couple. You know how it changes you. You know the weight of it.

And you carry that knowledge quietly. Because in the NICU, everyone is fighting something. And comparing battles doesn't help anyone.

NICU parents are special. I've written about that. The strength it takes to show up every day, to hand your baby to someone else, to keep going when the road has no visible end — that makes you a different kind of parent.

But NICU parents who've experienced loss are on a whole different level.

The strength to keep going after losing a pregnancy. The courage to try again knowing what can happen. The ability to keep it all together for work, for family, for your other kids — because life doesn't stop. Life just keeps going, whether you're ready for it to or not.

And somehow, these parents keep going with it. They grieve and they fight. They mourn what they lost and they celebrate what they have. They hold their NICU baby a little tighter because they know exactly how precious this chance is.

If you're in the NICU right now and you're carrying a loss that nobody in that room knows about — a miscarriage, a stillbirth, a twin you never got to meet, a pregnancy that ended before it should have — I see you.

You don't have to talk about it if you're not ready. You don't have to explain your grief to anyone. You don't have to justify why you cry harder on the good days than the bad ones, or why you hold your baby a little longer than the care teamplanned for, or why you can't look at the twins in the next room without your chest tightening.

What you're carrying is real. And the fact that you're still standing in that NICU — still showing up, still fighting, still finding a way to be grateful for the chance — that says everything about who you are as a parent.

The NICU didn't break you. The losses didn't break you. You're still here. Your baby is still here. And that is enough.

— Louie

Two-time NICU dad. Multiple losses. Still grateful for every single day.

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