For nine months, she grew within me. My firstborn. The one who made me a mother. I sang worship songs to her, talked about beaches we'd explore together, created the perfect environment of love behind my heartbeat's door. I dreamed of our lifetime together—never imagining how precious and brief our time would be.
April 19th, 2023. Our butterfly emerged. The room fell quiet as doctors took her away. We were first-time parents, uncertain, naive in the most beautiful way—thinking we had a lifetime ahead. I wanted to eat and rest before meeting her, not knowing how every second would become sacred.
When I first held her, time stopped. Her hands fit perfectly in mine. Her grip was so tight, so mighty—a fighter from her very first breath.
Two days later, alone in my recovery room while she was in the NICU, I saw the test results: Positive for Trisomy 13. I didn't know what it meant, so I searched. The statistics were devastating. Median survival: 7 days. Most babies never leave the hospital.
I shattered. Fell weeping to the floor. Nine months of hopes and dreams disintegrated before my eyes. But then I looked at Grace-Lynn—perfect, strong, defying every devastating word. We chose to see life where everyone else saw death. We chose to believe in miracles.
For 12 days, the NICU became our sacred ground. We never left her side, taking shifts—Davian holding her through the nights, me through the days. We prayed, sang worship songs, decorated her corner. Station 5, the biblical number of grace, where our daughter showed us what grace truly means.
Her presence calmed every room. Staff witnessed transformation they couldn't explain. This tiny girl with brilliant red hair, who they said couldn't see or hear, responded to our voices, smiled when we spoke, stabilized in our arms. She was teaching everyone around her about love that transcends medical charts.
Then came what felt impossible—we brought Grace-Lynn home. Most babies with Trisomy 13 never leave the hospital. But our fighter came to our sanctuary for 12 more days of laughter, singing, family joy. Late nights holding her close. Sacred memories we treasure. Perfect symmetry: 12 days in the hospital, 12 days at home, 23 days of grace.
We believed with all our hearts she would be okay—just different. We held onto hope even as terror walked alongside it. Strong for our baby girl while trembling inside, unprepared for this journey but walking it with faith as our guide.
The night before Grace-Lynn passed, God gave me a vision. He sat beside me by a gentle stream and said, "I'll care for her. She's part of heaven's dream." The next morning, in our living room, she took her final peaceful breath—a butterfly's last dance. She rested in her Father's hands, passing from Davian's arms to God's.
Time stopped in that living room. The world spun on without us while we stayed frozen, desperate to go back. My body bore evidence of the life I'd carried. My arms were empty. Every step forward meant moving away from the last time I held her. Each new memory without her cut deeper than the last.
Videos on repeat showed the truth—her smile, her grip, her glow. How could such perfect beauty have had so far to go? Life lost color. I was building up just to fall apart. The grief was an ocean.
But Grace-Lynn's imprint on my heart could never be diminished. Now I carry her with me in every story told. Her light lives on through speaking of the love she unfolded in 23 days. Not absent of my daughter, but bringing her along—in every word, every breath, she makes my spirit strong.
Like butterflies with purpose in each wing, every breath she took was divinely planned. Simply by being here, she transformed the world with love. Her 23-day dance lives on in every heart she's touched. The butterfly effect of love—where healing has its start.