I Wouldn't Wish the Pain but I Would Wish the Perspective

Ten months ago, I gave birth to my miracle. She was born at 31 weeks after months of bleeding, uncertainty, and terrifying medical complications. During labor, her heart rate dropped again and again—until they couldn’t find it at all. She entered this world septic, with respiratory distress syndrome, and spent her first nearly six weeks in the NICU, hooked up to machines that kept her alive.

The NICU was our home for 39 days. Days that were filled with machines, monitors, and the constant fear that one wrong move could undo everything. A heart always waiting for the next disaster. It was simultaneously sterile and sacred. Cold and holy. And it broke me open in ways I could never have imagined.

My placenta was necrotic, undersized, torn, and completely infected. There was a massive hematoma. I was told later that the odds of a baby surviving a pregnancy like mine—let alone surviving without long-term delays—were less than one percent. And yet, here she is today: healthy, joyful, thriving. Every day, she meets new milestones with a sparkle in her eyes. She’s our living, breathing miracle, and this brings me to tears often.

But I didn’t come out of that season the same woman I was going in. Trauma changes you, whether you want it to or not, and the physiological responses remain far beyond when you would like them to.

For months, I’ve tried to find the words to describe what this journey did to me. It tore me down to the studs and required a complete rebuilding. It shook my soul to its core. But it also shifted me. It woke me up. It created a whole new perspective that almost, just almost, made it all worth it.

And I keep coming back to this phrase, “I wouldn’t wish the pain, but I would wish the perspective.”

I wouldn’t wish the beeping wires, the sterile halls, the trembling hands, the tiny footprints, or the see-through skin. I wouldn’t wish the haunting dreams, the what ifs, the loss of innocence, the weight that never let me rest. Nor the moments when I held my breath and prayed that she would stay here.

I would wish the way I now see each sacred day, how every inch she’s grown reminds me that God still makes things whole. I’d wish the love that softened me, that both broke and built me. I’d wish the new way I see my kids, with eyes that can see that life is not a guarantee. I would wish the perspective that comes from living with a real-life miracle, a child who walked through shadowed storms and danced out of the grave.

One benefit of this experience was the new lens it gave me.

I now live with deeper gratitude, a heart-on-my-sleeve sense of awe for the simple moments. Where others see a baby learning to sit, I see a baby who was never supposed to survive doing something extraordinary. Every coo, every giggle, every messy mealtime—it all feels like a gift from the Lord. I no longer measure her progress by a chart. I measure it in awe. Like a tangible track record of all the answered prayers.

After hearing, “the doctors aren’t sure this pregnancy is viable,” and “there could be long-term damage, we aren’t sure what her future will look like,” Pinterest-worthy matching outfits and elaborate vacations no longer hold the weight they used to. Watching your baby fight for each breath changes what really matters. Instead, my eyes have been opened up to the gift of time. The gift of a simple moment together. Now breath is a gift and time is gold, and I no longer chase control.

It’s provided me with perspective on parenting.

This didn’t just change how I care for my youngest—it changed how I mother all of them.

I hold them a little longer. I listen more intently. I care less about rushing through the day and more about savoring the moments.

Their needs feel more sacred now—not something to “get through,” but something to tend to with grace.

The urgency to “get it right” has softened into a desire to love them deeply, not perfectly. I love more fiercely now, more fully, because none of us is promised tomorrow.

It’s brought a deeper sense of intentionality, like a refining fire that has shown what truly matters, stripping away the distractions that don’t. I no longer want to take time for granted. Life itself feels infinitely more precious than it ever did once you realize how quickly it can all change. I’ve learned to say no to things that don’t matter to have time to truly focus on what does—my family.

I’ve seen the mercy of God in the most raw, most beautiful, and undeserved way. This whole experience was drenched in the mercy of the Lord.

Every heartbeat.
Every breath.
Every inch of progress.

Even in the nights when fear consumed me, He was there. I clung to His promises when nothing else made sense. I watched Him carry me when I couldn’t take another step. I begged Him to save her—and He did.

This journey wasn’t wrapped in silver linings. It wasn’t something I could “positive-think” my way through. I wept. I prayed. I screamed. I broke. And I healed, rebuilt—slowly, painfully, beautifully.

No, I would never wish this pain on anyone.

But the perspective it gave me? The way it taught me to hold life with open hands, abolishing the previously held façade that I am the one in control? To see my children as the treasures they are, not a burden to manage? To see the beauty of a sunrise in a whole new way? The way it made me fall to my knees and realize how much I need Jesus, every moment of every day? The ways I saw answered prayers and his compassion in my pain?

That, I would wish for the world, because it has truly changed my life.