Borrowed Joy

Why Gratitude Feels Heavier When You Know the Cost

The room was filled with a sound we had never heard before, even though we had been in that space twice before.

The cry of a newborn.

What had once been marked by silence—by tears we could not stop and prayers that seemed to go unanswered—was now filled with the unmistakable sound of life. There were still tears, but this time they came with gratitude. There was still fear, but it stood beside a radiant, almost disorienting hope that had eluded us for so long. It was the beginning of our life as an earthside family, yet before we could even imagine going home, another hurdle stood in front of us: an extended NICU stay we had not planned for.

Much like the journey through our first loss, the world of the NICU was foreign to me. I knew people who had walked this road, but knowing of something is not the same as living inside it. When our daughter was born this past May, nurses moved quickly, efficiently, compassionately. Their calm presence was meant to steady us, and it did—but nothing could soften the weight of the words that followed. Our daughter would need to be transferred to the NICU only moments after being born.

This was our third pregnancy, something we had prayed for and longed for over the course of years. What should have been a purely joyous moment for a family shaped by loss was interrupted by fear. She was born five weeks early. She needed help. And once again, the future felt uncertain.

Shortly after my wife—an absolute force of nature—gave birth unmedicated while on Pitocin (a detail that deserves to be said plainly: that is no small feat; Pitocin intensifies contractions while offering no relief, and she endured it with a strength I will never stop admiring), our daughter was placed in an incubator and wheeled away for monitoring and care. I was left with a decision I never imagined having to make: stay with my wife, or follow our daughter into the NICU.

After a quiet, heavy back-and-forth, we decided I would go with our daughter. I watched as they wheeled her down a long, cold hospital hallway that seemed to stretch endlessly. My senses were overwhelmed—alarms sounding, babies crying in distress I could not fix, the sharp smell of disinfectant, the chill of the NICU wing designed to protect fragile bodies. Beneath it all was another coldness, harder to name: the uncertainty of what awaited us.

The thing about the NICU, I learned, is that you are surrounded by stories you will never fully know. Some babies stay only a few days. Others remain for months, even years. And some—an unthinkable truth—will never leave that wing in their parents’ arms.

It was a reminder I already knew too well: not every parent who enters a hospital with a child will walk out with that child.

Over twenty-five days, that truth became impossible to ignore. We saw grieving parents in hallways. We spent long hours sitting beside our sleeping daughter, memorizing the rise and fall of her chest. And every night, we faced the same heartbreak—leaving her behind. Walking away while she lay in her bassinet, unaware of where we were going or why we couldn’t stay.

That part still breaks my heart.

And then, one day, we were allowed to leave with her.

Instead of pure relief, I felt something else entirely. I felt like an imposter. Like someone who had been handed a gift I hadn’t earned. I carried gratitude so heavy it ached, tangled tightly with grief for those who would never experience this moment. I knew, painfully, that this ending was not guaranteed for everyone.

That realization has stayed with me.

Our story is not universal. Our outcome is not owed. And knowing that does not diminish our joy—it deepens it. It humbles it. It teaches me to hold gratitude without erasing grief, to celebrate what we have while honoring those who walk a different road.

The cry of our newborn filled the room that day. But so did everything that came before it. And I carry all of it—the silence, the tears, the fear, the hope—together.