Meaghan’s Journey: From Grief to Healing and Hope for Her Son 5745

Our journey to Wyatt began long before his birth. My husband, Luke, and I spent over four and a half years trying to fall pregnant. Along the way, we endured two heartbreaking miscarriages—losses that changed the way I would experience pregnancy forever. Those early years were filled with hope, grief, and the constant challenge of trying to keep going after every setback. Eventually, we turned to IVF, stepping into a world that was both filled with hope and uncertainty, emotional exhaustion, and moments of despair.

After one egg retrieval, we were incredibly fortunate to have seven healthy embryos. But the joy of that moment quickly turned to anxiety when the first transfer failed. We braced ourselves for more disappointment, unsure of how much more we could endure. And then, with our second transfer, we finally fell pregnant with Wyatt. I wish I could say that moment was filled with joy, but the truth is, it wasn’t. After everything we had been through, I was consumed by fear. Pregnancy, which should have been a time of excitement and anticipation, felt instead like a ticking clock of uncertainty. Every scan, every symptom, every moment, was clouded by the constant anxiety that this pregnancy would end in loss as well.

Early bleeding and repeated scares only reinforced my fear. Later, I was diagnosed with a subchorionic hematoma, adding another layer of worry to an already fragile situation. As the weeks passed, the emotional toll of it all became overwhelming. Every moment of this pregnancy felt like I was walking on a tightrope, never knowing when everything might come crashing down.

By the time we transitioned to public care, I tried to allow myself to believe that things might finally settle, that we might have a “normal” pregnancy. But at 28 weeks, everything changed. A routine check flagged concerns about Wyatt’s growth and my fundal height. Within hours, we were sent to the Women’s and Children’s Hospital in Adelaide to see the Maternal Fetal Medicine (MFM) team. I still remember how quickly things escalated, how little we were told at first, and how terrifying it all was.

Wyatt was diagnosed with severe intrauterine growth restriction (IUGR), and it was revealed that there was absent and sometimes reversed blood flow through the placenta. To add to the concern, I was diagnosed with asymptomatic preeclampsia. Within days, I was admitted to the hospital at 29 weeks. Those two weeks were incredibly challenging. We were living in constant uncertainty, with doctors telling us we wouldn’t make it anywhere near full term, with the goal now being 32 weeks. But still, we didn’t know when everything would change. It felt like a constant mental game, where hope and fear coexisted every single day.

We toured the NICU and began preparing for a reality we had never imagined—a premature baby, a long hospital stay, and a completely different start to parenthood than we had ever envisioned. But underneath it all, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had failed. I had failed to carry my previous babies to term, failed to conceive without IVF, and now, I felt like I was failing to keep this baby safe inside me until term. It consumed me.

When Wyatt’s condition became more concerning, the decision was made to deliver him via emergency caesarean at 31 weeks and 3 days. We were told not to expect him to cry, not to expect to hold him. That moment was shrouded in fear and sadness. Wyatt entered the world weighing just 1040 grams. I held him for only a few seconds before he was whisked away to the NICU with Luke, while I remained behind being stitched back together—physically separated from my baby, with no idea if he was okay.

That was the beginning of our NICU journey. Nothing prepares you for it. The grief you experience is complex. It’s not just fear for your baby, but grief for the pregnancy you didn’t have, the birth you didn’t get, and the early days of motherhood you had imagined. There’s something deeply unnatural about needing permission to hold your own baby, about looking at them through a plastic box, not even knowing what their face looks like underneath all the wires and tubing.

For me, there was also something else I didn’t expect—I felt incredibly disconnected. After waiting over 10 hours before I could physically get to the NICU, I don’t even remember meeting Wyatt properly for the first time. I went through the motions. I showed up every day, learned the NICU language, asked questions, and advocated for him as best I could. I did his cares, held him, and followed the routine. But I didn’t feel like his mum. I didn’t feel that overwhelming rush of love people talk about, and that scared me more than anything.

While I watched other parents cry at the bedside, I felt numb—removed, like I was existing in a completely different version of time. I remember feeling so out of place in this new world, but with the support of Luke and the hospital team, I was able to speak up about how I was feeling. Slowly, things began to shift. That connection with Wyatt did come, but for me, it didn’t fully land until we brought him home.

One of the most defining moments of our NICU stay wasn’t a big medical milestone—it was moving into an open cot. For the first time, I could pick him up whenever I wanted. No asking, no waiting, no barriers. It was the first time I truly felt like his mum. Something so simple, yet something so many parents never have to think twice about.

Despite how hard it was, there were moments of light. I found an incredible community in other NICU parents—people who understood this world in a way no one else could, many of whom are still part of my everyday life. I saw just how strong and remarkable these tiny babies are, and the strength in my husband and our relationship—not because we chose it, but because we had to. We learned to celebrate everything: every gram gained, every tube removed, every small step forward. Programs like the Tiny Stars Beads helped us mark those moments, giving meaning to milestones others might not see, and we leaned on others in ways we never had before.

After everything we had been through, bringing Wyatt home felt surreal. And in the months that followed, as the fog began to lift and my connection to him deepened, I found myself reflecting on just how much that journey had changed me.

What I didn’t expect to come out of all of this was becoming a published author and illustrator. In the depths of our NICU journey, I felt there was a gap—a lack of stories that truly reflected the complexity of this experience. The grief, the guilt, the disconnect, the hope, the love, the loss… all existing at once. So, I created the book I wish I had in those early days. Brave Beginnings became, in many ways, my second baby to leave the NICU and a pivotal part of my healing. It gave me a way to process everything we had been through and to create something meaningful from the hardest chapter of our lives.

Because if there’s one thing I want other parents to know, it’s this: you are not alone in how you feel. Not in the fear, the grief, the guilt, or even the disconnect. There is no “right” way to experience this journey. And even in the hardest, most uncertain beginnings… there can still be connection, healing, and so much love waiting on the other side.