Director of Partnerships
At 34 weeks pregnant, during what was supposed to be a routine sonogram, we learned that Nolan had a “heart defect.” Up until that moment, I had a completely normal, healthy pregnancy. I was preparing for my baby shower when my OB noticed a shadow on the scan. It didn’t look overly alarming, but just to be safe, they referred me to a Maternal Fetal Medicine (MFM) specialist.
What followed was an exhausting week of appointments, specialists, and devastating conversations. After more testing, it was confirmed Nolan had Dilated Cardiomyopathy (DCM). My world turned upside down in an instant. Doctors told us there were only two possibilities, either he wouldn’t survive, or he would, but it would be a brutal road ahead, likely ending in a heart transplant. And if he did make it? We were told to expect months in the hospital. That was the reality I had to sit with for the last four weeks of my pregnancy. And unfortunately, this is the type of information that so many of these moms of babies born with one of the many types of CHD are given as they wait to deliver.
Nolan was born via C-section after a failed ECV (thankfully). He made it through delivery and was immediately transferred to Children’s Hospital in Dallas, five miles away from where I delivered—five of the scariest minutes of our lives. We spent 4.5 months in the ICU and step-down unit, never leaving his side through countless scary nights and close calls. At just two weeks old, he was placed on the transplant list as a 1A priority. We waited. And waited, night after night, day after day, and all of the major holidays. But that call never came.
Nolan, in true fashion, had his own plan. He fought. He grew. He stabilized. And against all odds, he was eventually removed from the transplant list. While he’ll be on medication for life and there are still unknowns, he is thriving. And we are so lucky.
I’ll never forget what it felt like to live in that hospital—waking up every day in the same room, showering in hospital bathrooms, trying to eat, work, and hold it all together. It’s a special kind of experience that just never leaves you. Something as simple as a package of face wipes or fuzzy socks brought comfort in a way that’s hard to explain.
That’s why I’m so passionate about my work with Project Mom Bags. My hope is to bring even a little bit of comfort and encouragement to other moms navigating the unimaginable—to remind them they are not alone, their new normal (whatever it may look like) can be beautiful, and that miracles, like Nolan, do happen.
