I hold his hands. He holds my heart.
Wyatt is turning three soon, and every day he works so hard on walking. With his walker, he can move across a room, but he still prefers my hands. He began by gripping both of mine tightly, letting me follow wherever he wanted to go. Lately, he often reaches for just one of my hands, and even more remarkably, he’s started letting go to take a few independent steps. Balance is still a challenge, and his low muscle tone makes it hard, but he is determined—so determined—to walk on his own. And I want it just as badly for him. I want him to know that whenever he needs me, that small, determined hand of his can reach out and mine will always be there, steady and ready. After all, this is how our journey began.
I hold his hands. He holds my heart.
I was only weeks pregnant, after rounds of IVF, when my doctor called with news I will never forget. “The probability of your baby having Down syndrome is 99%,” she said. “Your child may never walk or talk; he may never drive. This is an intellectual disability, and there will be health issues along with it.” My first thought was simple: “But the baby’s okay?” She paused, surprised by my question. “Yes,” she said. And in that moment, that was all that mattered. We never saw her again.
The very next day, my husband and I went to a maternal-fetal medicine specialist for a level 2 ultrasound, hoping to confirm the blood test results. The doctor was kind, reassuring, but I don’t remember much of what he said. Because for the first time, we saw our baby boy. There he was—tiny, perfect—his little hand waving and reaching for us. That night, we named him Wyatt, for warrior; Steel, for strength. I rubbed my hands over my belly where I had seen his tiny hands, whispering over and over, “I love you.”
I hold his hands. He holds my heart.
Weeks later, during another ultrasound, the technician said, “I’m just going to get the doctor.” By then, we had a rhythm. I’d been coming for weekly BPPs and NSTs for over a month because Wyatt had IUGR and restricted umbilical flow. My husband never missed a test. We’d watch him on the screen, see him stretch his little hands toward us, smile, and go home. But this day was different. No matter how hard I stared, Wyatt’s hands didn’t move. The doctor arrived quickly, looked at the screen, and said, “We’re going to have this baby now.” The umbilical flow had stopped. Surgery was immediate.
I was just over 35 weeks along and terrified. A huge team surrounded us—surgeons, nurses, anesthesiologists, and NICU staff, ready to whisk Wyatt away. “He might not cry,” my doctor warned. “You may not hold him. There may not be time before he goes to the NICU.” My world spun, but he added, “It’s going to be okay. He’s in the best hands.” Wyatt cried—thankfully, he cried—and it was the most beautiful sound. I held him, kissed his tiny head, and he grasped my finger with his little hand. From the very first moment, Wyatt defied expectations.
I hold his hands. He holds my heart.
Wyatt spent 67 days in the NICU, more than half of them inside an isolette. For much of that time, I could only slip my hands through the little holes in the sides to hold his. I read him book after book, sang song after song, feeling him clutch my fingers.
I had spent months in pregnancy worrying about unknowns, devouring research, books, and blogs. I reached out to strangers, joined support groups, met specialists—wanting to know everything, desperate to help him. And yet, holding his tiny hands through the isolette, I realized everything was already okay. We were perfect for each other.
I hold his hands. He holds my heart.
In almost three years, Wyatt has endured more than most people will in a lifetime—open-heart surgery, a rare neurological disorder, multiple hospitalizations, hearing and vision impairments, challenges with walking, talking, and even eating. Yet he has also lived life fully—reading books, dancing to music, traveling, crossing the NYC marathon finish line twice, swimming in oceans and lakes, riding bikes and horses, and skiing for the first time. Wyatt is deeply loved, endlessly celebrated. His extra chromosome has connected us to an incredible community of families, strengthened our own family, and made him beautifully, perfectly himself.
I hold his hands. He holds my heart.
Wyatt has shattered ceilings and broken barriers already in his tiny life. He has shown me—and everyone lucky enough to know him—that hard things can be done. Every step he takes is a mountain climbed; every word he signs or says is a dream realized; every milestone reached is a prayer answered. And every grin he flashes is a treasure, full of courage, grit, and grace.
His hands are growing stronger now, bigger, but in them, he still holds my heart. And in mine, he will always be steady.
