September is Neonatal Intensive Care Awareness Month. It is a time to recognize the babies who begin their lives in the NICU and the medical providers who care for them. And it is important to talk about the dismayed parents, many of whom suddenly become members of a club they never imagined they’d be a part of: The parents of the NICU babies.

I didn’t envision my firstborn son’s first days of life to be traumatic and terrifying. The books had been read; the classes attended. I spent many nights in the quiet of my bedroom talking to the little one kicking in my belly. I hoped and prayed for him. I dreamed of the day when I would finally be able to see his beautiful face, but I never thought that his perfect little cheeks would be masked beneath breathing tubes and surgical tape. None of the books or blogs told me that motherhood would begin like this:

Receiving the epidural I didn’t plan on having and the frantic commotion that followed are memories blurred in my mind. Rapidly dropping heart rate. Oxygen masks. Words spoken too loudly. I remember confusion.

“But I didn’t read the chapter on c-sections!” I recall protesting to my anesthesiologist, as we raced into the cold operating room.

My son had not even taken his first breath, yet I was already learning one of the most profound lessons of parenthood: We are not in control of the twists and turns life will take.

I remember the fear written all over my husband’s face, a man who is rarely shaken. Remembering the first glorious cry breaking through the stoic tension in the room. I cried, too, because he was more beautiful than I could have ever imagined. Then I cried because they took him away.

Those precious, first moments of skin-to-vernixy-baby skin, contentedly nursing as I stared deeply into his eyes, and lovingly holding my husband’s hand as we marveled over the blessing we had just received: all of my hopes were instantly dashed away. As I lay in a morphine-induced sleep, my sweet babe was just hours old and fighting for his life. For months to come I would be haunted by the image of him struggling without his mama by his side.

I felt as though my body had failed him. I had brought him into a world of pain, and there was nothing I could do to protect him. The ache was unbearable.

When at last I was able to see him, I entered into a quiet space buzzing with the sound of heart rate monitors and breathing apparatuses. It was vastly different from the joyous feeling of the maternity ward. These parents looked haggard and scared. They had scrubbed their hands raw and donned yellow medical gowns before entering a hall filled with babies tangled in wires.

In the midst of it all lay my perfect son, bruised by needles and bound by tape. But alive. Breathing. A relief and heartache I’ve never known flooded over me, nearly knocking me to the ground.

For days we would live in a suspended state. Scrubbing hands; yellow gowns. Whispered prayers; love and fear. His lungs needed assistance and he was too fragile to be held, so we positioned ourselves as closely to that NICU crib as our nurses would allow.

Looking across the room at all of the other grief-stricken parents, the silent bond of solidarity grew stronger with every day that passed.

When the day came that I was told I could go home, and my baby would have to stay behind, I then understood the phrase: “Motherhood is learning to live with your heart walking around outside of your body.” I had arrived at the hospital with a belly full of life and promise; I arrived home to a deafening emptiness.

I wish I could tell you that I had the strength to return to the hospital for late night visiting hours that evening. I’m ashamed to admit that I couldn’t bring myself to go. The thought of kissing my baby goodbye for the second time in one day devastated me.  Instead, I sent my husband with bottles of the milk I had pumped. He was the strong one; he was steady. He had never held a newborn in his life, and yet he was instantly our son’s protector.

As for me? I felt like I wasn’t cut out to be a mother. My body had not birthed the way it was supposed to. My womb had betrayed my tiny, precious boy. The prayers for health and safe keeping went unheard. Postpartum emotions were running wild in my mind, and I could not seem to silence them. Perhaps this is why the newborn with the head full of dark hair who rested beside my son in the NICU slept alone without a visitor. Perhaps his parents just couldn’t brace themselves against the heartache.

Yet, as the days passed our son grew stronger, and so did I. The breathing tube was removed. His lungs and heart grew healthier, and we rejoiced.

In that week spent in the NICU, I learned what it means to be a mother: To let a love that is greater than fear, stronger than sickness, and more powerful than uncertainty into your heart. It is a love that continues to grow.

Last month our son celebrated his seventh birthday. Each August I find myself overcome with gratitude that we were able to carry him out of the NICU and into the world safely nestled in our arms.

I know that not every beautiful baby is able to leave in this way. I know that some mothers and fathers must leave a piece of their heart behind, and live lives forever changed.

To all of the NICU parents who have cried out tears of joy mixed with tears of sorrow, I hope you have known happiness amidst your despair. May you find blessings in a brighter tomorrow.