If I could send a letter to myself... it would be when my son was in the NICU.

Dear Katie in the middle of it all,

The big, scary diagnosis. The impossible decisions. The isolation. The literal aching pain of bringing a child into the world, and watching him immediately flown halfway across the country for specialists and surgery. I know right now you’re in the middle of it. The kind of "middle" where the storm is raging, the waves are towering, and you feel like Peter walking on water—only you’re not walking anymore. You’re sinking. The light above feels unreachable, and the ground below is invisible. The current keeps pulling you deeper. You can’t catch your breath, and every effort to fight the water feels futile. You’re terrified, exhausted, and wondering how much longer you can keep going.

You’re grieving, even if you don’t fully understand it yet. Grieving for Tommy, your tiny baby who seems to have repeatedly drawn the statistical short stick. Grieving for yourself, for the life you thought you'd have, for the family that would never look like the pictures in your head. Grieving for a future that feels stolen before it even began. You love your child fiercely, but that doesn’t erase the pain of losing the dream.

You’re tired in a way that no amount of sleep could fix, like someone fighting the waves with every ounce of strength they have left. The storm thrashes around you, and each wave crashes harder than the last, pulling you under. You’re spinning, tumbling, with bubbles floating up around you, and you can’t tell which way is up anymore. Every time you fight your way toward the surface, the current drags you back down. Then comes the moment when you can’t fight anymore. You curl into yourself, feeling the pull of the water, and it’s there—in that surrender—that help comes. You’re not meant to stay afloat by yourself. God’s hand reaches down, pulling you up, steadying you when you feel too weak to keep going. And when He lifts you, you’ll see that you were never alone. Your support system is there too, ready to carry you through when you can’t swim on your own.

You don’t know it yet, but the shadow following you has a name. The crushing heaviness, the constant replaying of the worst moments—it’s more than exhaustion. It’s the weight of postpartum depression and PTSD, the scars of fighting battles you weren’t prepared for.

But, Katie, there’s something you need to hear: this is not where your story ends.

Just like Peter, who cried out as he sank beneath the waves, you are not alone. There is a strength greater than your own—one that reaches out when you’ve hit your lowest point. You’ll feel it steadying your trembling feet, reminding you that you don’t have to fight the storm alone. This strength will save you, not just for a moment, but for as long as you need.

Despite everything going on right now, I can still see your wheels of action turning. You already know that you’re going to use this pain to change the world—even if it’s just the world of one other mother. Somewhere deep inside, there’s a part of you that refuses to let this pain be meaningless. Even now, you’re planting seeds for the future you’ll grow: a future of compassion, inclusion, and connection.

You’ll find a strength you never wanted and never asked for, but it will become a part of you. Not because you’re perfect or some kind of sainted "super mom," but because you refuse to stop loving, stop learning, or stop fighting for your child and others like him. You’ll learn to see the world differently—not just the hard parts, but the beauty in things you never noticed before.

And when people tell you you’re strong and resilient? You’ll still want to roll your eyes sometimes. But you’ll also know better: that being strong doesn’t mean never breaking. It means breaking and rebuilding. Over and over, as many times as it takes.

One day, you’ll look at Tommy—your warrior, your miracle, your joy—and you’ll realize that while he may not fit the picture you once imagined, he’s everything you never knew you needed. He’ll teach you more about inclusion, compassion, and resilience than any book or class ever could. And through him, you’ll find a purpose that’s bigger than your pain.

So, to you—Katie in the middle of it all—I want to say: Keep going. Ask for help. Let yourself grieve. Let yourself rest. Know that you’re not alone, even when it feels like it. And someday, when the weight feels less crushing, use this experience to build something beautiful—for Tommy, for yourself, and for a world that desperately needs more compassion.

With love and hope,

Katie, The Fierce. The Felicitous. The Dream Factory Lady.