Pregnancy after loss can be beautiful, but it can also be filled with fear, uncertainty, and extra layers of worry. For families who have experienced stillbirth or infant loss, the joy of a new pregnancy often comes with the added pressure of high-risk appointments, extra testing, early inductions, and, in some cases, time in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU). The NICU can feel overwhelming, isolating, and exhausting—every day a delicate balance between hope, fear, and the tiny milestones that matter so much.

We know this because we’ve been there. After loss, every test, every procedure, every sleepless night can reopen old wounds while bringing new anxieties. Families navigating the NICU after a previous loss are walking an emotional tightrope—and they shouldn’t have to do it alone.

That’s why we created the NICU Program/Kit. This thoughtfully prepared support kit is designed to bring comfort, encouragement, and practical care to families during the long, tender days in the NICU. Each kit is carefully curated with items to help parents nurture connection with their baby, honor their journey, and care for themselves in the process. Inside, families might find comforting essentials, a soft swaddle, a keepsake, scripture or encouragement cards, and gentle resources to help guide them through a challenging season.

More than a kit, this is a tangible reminder that you are seen, your baby is cherished, and your story matters. Every item is selected with compassion to hold space for your worries, your hope, and your love.

Supporting Families Through the NICU Journey

No family should have to navigate the NICU alone—especially after the pain of a previous loss. We believe that in these tender, stretching moments, families deserve something tangible to remind them that they are not forgotten.

Through generous donors, sponsors, and supporters, we work to make the NICU Kit available for families in hospitals and through individual requests. Every kit is a way to wrap families in comfort, encouragement, and hope—so they can focus on what matters most: their baby, their love, and their healing.

Our mission with the NICU Support Program is deeply personal. We know what it feels like to face the unknown after loss, to worry for your child’s health, and to spend long days in the hospital wondering what comes next. Every kit, every resource, and every act of support reminds families that even in these most difficult and uncertain moments, they are not alone.

Our NICU Journey...

When we found out we were pregnant again, our hearts held two very real emotions at the exact same time—overwhelming gratitude and overwhelming fear. After losing our daughter at full term, nothing about pregnancy felt safe anymore. There was no milestone that offered relief, no week where we finally exhaled. Eight weeks… the first trimester… the anatomy scan… every appointment felt like stepping into a place where both hope and heartbreak lived. Because when you’ve made it all the way to the finish line before and still didn’t get to bring your baby home, “safe” becomes a word that doesn’t belong to you anymore.

This pregnancy was considered high-risk after our stillbirth, which meant more appointments, extra testing, continuous monitoring, and more time in the very hallways that held our deepest grief. Each visit came with its own wave of anxiety—walking into the same rooms, sitting in the same chairs, passing the same doors where we had once prayed for our daughter’s heartbeat. The added monitoring brought comfort, yes, but it also brought the constant ache of “please, God… let everything be okay.”

Late in pregnancy, a scare with our son led to an early induction—earlier than the early induction we had already requested. It stirred up layers of fear we didn’t even know were still buried. We did everything we could to trust God and cling to His plan, but our hearts were exhausted. All we wanted was to bring this baby home.

And then, after all the waiting and praying, he arrived… only for us to be ushered into a brand-new kind of fear.

Almost immediately, we realized we were facing a NICU journey—again. We had experienced the NICU once before, in a pregnancy prior to our loss, and while that stay was short, the NICU was never an easy place. But after losing our daughter, it became a place that cut even deeper. To watch your newborn be taken from your arms so quickly, to hear the words “he’s having trouble breathing,” to see him rushed away before you can process what’s happening… it is a heartbreak that feels too familiar when you’ve already lived your worst nightmare.

From there began a long, emotional journey inside the NICU—a place where progress is slow, unpredictable, and fragile. One step forward, two steps back. Every day looked different. Some days brought hope; others brought fear right back to the surface. Seeing your tiny, innocent baby hooked up to wires, monitors, breathing support, feeding tubes… hearing alarms and beeps constantly… feeling utterly helpless because all you can do is sit, pray, and hold their little hand—those moments stay with you forever.

And then came one of the hardest moments of all: being discharged without our baby. Walking out of the hospital doors—the same doors we once left empty-handed after losing our daughter—shattered something inside us. It was excruciating. It was triggering. It was every fear we ever had, wrapped into one moment. We had to walk into our home and explain to our children that their baby brother wasn’t coming home yet, that he needed extra help, that we had to keep waiting and praying.

The days that followed were a blur of driving back and forth, taking turns at his bedside, calling for updates, watching monitors, waiting for answers, hoping for improvement, and trying to trust God in the middle of constant uncertainty. Every small setback felt enormous. Every small gain felt like a miracle.

The NICU is its own kind of wilderness—one that parents never expect to walk through, and one that becomes even heavier when you are carrying the weight of previous loss. It is emotional. It is draining. It is holy and heartbreaking all at once. It forces you to surrender, over and over, because you cannot fix anything. You can only show up, love your child fiercely, trust the medical team, and pray with every breath that you will one day carry your baby out of those doors.