March 2021 was meant to be one of the happiest months of my life. Our second child was due on March 9, and my husband and I were filled with excitement and gratitude. I had experienced a wonderful, easy pregnancy. We had welcomed our first baby—a sweet little boy—in 2019, and now he was about to become a big brother to a baby sister. It felt like such a blessing. We had everything prepared for her arrival: the stroller, beautiful little clothes, and her room was already half finished. We asked my sister to be her godmother and a close friend of ours to be her godfather. In every way, we felt ready and joyful as we waited for this precious miracle.
Then, on Wednesday morning—just six days before my due date—everything changed. I received a phone call that shattered my world. My best friend and her husband, who was meant to be our baby’s godfather, had died in a tragic accident in the mountains. I collapsed beside my two-year-old son, unable to process what I had just heard. The grief was overwhelming. I called my parents and asked if they could take care of my son for the day so I could be alone. I cried nonstop, completely broken, and couldn’t imagine how I was supposed to bring new life into the world while carrying such deep sorrow.
The closeness of death and new life felt unbearable. Losing such a young couple while my daughter was about to be born was simply too much for my heart to hold. Still, I knew I had no choice but to walk through it. I clung to my faith, believing God would somehow give me peace and strength. As my due date approached, I barely slept. Then, on Sunday, March 7, around midday, my water broke and contractions began. My husband and I rushed to the hospital. Labor progressed quickly, and after about three and a half hours, the doctor told me, “Just one more push.” I was so excited to finally meet our daughter. I pushed—and there she was. Our beautiful baby Lou. I held her close, but immediately felt that something wasn’t right.
She wasn’t crying like newborns usually do. Suddenly, my doctor took her from my arms and moved quickly to examine her. When she returned, she pulled my husband and me close and said words I will never forget: “Your daughter is very sick. I don’t know what’s wrong, but we need to examine her and transfer her to another hospital.” Moments later, they took our precious baby away.
I was completely devastated. The pain of being separated from her was almost unbearable. My mind raced with terrifying questions—would she survive, was this all a mistake, would she live with a severe disability? We had to stay overnight at the hospital where I had given birth. Somehow, despite everything, I even managed to sleep a little.
The next day, my husband and I went to see Lou in the NICU. We stayed there for three days while doctors ran test after test. She remained relatively stable, but it was clear something was seriously wrong. She had an open head wound, a heart condition, and other complications. After three days, we received the diagnosis: Trisomy 13. We had no idea during the pregnancy—even after several tests. Her life expectancy was extremely short, and it was considered a miracle she had already survived this long. Strangely, I wasn’t shocked. I had already told my husband I suspected Trisomy 13. I felt God had somehow prepared my heart for this truth.
We were suddenly living in what felt like both the most horrific and the most sacred season of our lives. Overnight, we became the family with the sick child—something we never imagined for ourselves. No one could tell us how long Lou would live: hours, weeks, months, maybe even years. We were forced to live entirely in the present, cherishing every moment, while simultaneously making impossible decisions about her future. It was exhausting and painful. Yet we loved her beyond words. Her body was fragile and broken, but her spirit felt whole and powerful. She was perfectly made, and we held onto the promise that one day she would be completely restored.
I don’t know if any baby has ever been loved and cuddled as deeply as Lou was during her first week of life. Being her mother was an incredible honor. She was a gift—a difficult, unexpected gift I would never have chosen for myself, but one God entrusted to me. And if God trusted me with her life, I wanted to give her everything I had. Still, beneath all that love, I carried deep pain and anger. I felt forgotten by God and wrestled with why this was happening—especially after losing my friend so recently. Each day in the hospital was filled with meetings and discussions about possible surgeries.
After much prayer, tears, and reflection, we made the decision not to pursue any surgeries and instead bring her home as soon as possible. The doctors supported us and explained that children like Lou sometimes don’t survive operations. I knew that would have been unbearable for me. After a week and a half—three days in the NICU and then another department—we brought our beautiful girl home.
Being home together as a family was precious, but nothing felt normal. I cried daily and felt completely overwhelmed by the constant tension between life and death. Nurses came every day and every night to care for Lou. Our life felt chaotic and unfamiliar. Then, on a Thursday evening, Lou became unusually restless. She had always been such a peaceful baby, but that night she cried and wouldn’t settle. Something felt wrong. Still, because doctors had mentioned she might live for months or even years, I never imagined death was near.
That night, there was no nursing staff. After walking with her in my arms for over an hour, we both finally fell asleep. The next morning, I texted my family to come over—I had a feeling she wouldn’t be with us much longer. At 10:30 a.m., Lou died in my arms. I felt it happening. Sitting on the floor, I asked my husband to come closer and hold me. I whispered, “She’s going to die,” and just seconds later, she took her final breath. My sister and a photographer friend were there, and a photo was taken during that moment. It is one of my most treasured possessions. Lou was with us for 19 days.
In the same month, I lost my best friend and her husband—and then, just 28 days later, my baby girl. March 2021 was the worst month of my life. Even now, it’s hard to believe it all happened. Yet, in the midst of unimaginable pain, I am grateful for how God has walked with me. After Lou was buried, I told God I never wanted anyone to call me “a strong woman.” I would rather have my baby and my friends back than wear that title. Strength came at too high a cost. I was tempted to remain in my dark valley rather than move forward into healing.
But I’ve learned that the dark valley matters. Pretending everything is fine isn’t healthy. I was completely honest with God—I screamed, cried, and poured out my anger and bitterness. And somehow, in that raw honesty, He began restoring my heart piece by piece. I miss Lou every single day. It still feels deeply unfair. But life isn’t fair—and God promises redemption. He turns ashes into beauty.
In Wholeness: Changing How We Think About Healing, Christy Wimber writes, “Scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. The deeper the scar, the greater the strength.” Right now, my story still feels like an open wound. Healing takes time. I will always miss Lou. That will never change. But I believe the sharp pain will soften into something more bearable—a pain that testifies to love. And I know March 2021 will shape me forever. The scar will be deep—but it will also make me strong.
