I never imagined that a thin sheet of glass could become the most unbearable distance I would ever face. They say that when a child is born, a mother is born too… but no one tells you that sometimes, that birth comes with fear, with trembling hands, with a heart that feels permanently cracked. 💔

Every day, I stand before the incubator, watching the tiny rise and fall of his chest. The monitors beep steadily, but each sound feels like it cuts straight into me. With every alarm, my own heartbeat stumbles. With every fluctuation, my breath catches. And as I look at him—so impossibly small, so heartbreakingly fragile—I find myself whispering the same silent plea:

“Please… hold on.”

If I could, I would trade places with him without hesitation.
I would take the tubes, the needles, the pain, the struggle—every bit of it—just so he wouldn’t have to fight. I would carry it on my back for a lifetime if it meant he could go home, wrapped safely in my arms, where the world can’t touch him.

There are days when I feel strong.
Days when I slip my hand through the opening in the incubator, let my fingertip rest on his tiny palm, and tell him he is brave… he is loud with life… he is a warrior destined to overcome.

But then there are days like today—when exhaustion wins, when doubt creeps in, when fear speaks louder than faith. It’s a kind of ache that presses on the lungs, that makes breathing feel like a task, that turns hope into something delicate and trembling.

And yet, even in the middle of this storm, I still believe.
I believe in the strength that comes from unity.
I believe in the invisible threads of kindness that connect people who have never met.
I believe that prayers—no matter the language, no matter the distance—carry real weight, real warmth, real miracles. 🙏💛

So if your heart has room today, please send a prayer, a blessing, or even a single good thought for my little fighter.
Your compassion, your love, your light… it means more than words can ever hold.