The Day I Met My Daughter (And Lost My Breath… Literally)

I didn’t know a heart could live outside my body—until I met my burrito baby.

Ever since I was a little girl, I wanted to be a mom. You know how kids say they want to be doctors or astronauts or firefighters? Sure, I said those things too. But the dream that stuck—the one I whispered to myself when no one was listening—was that I wanted to be a mama.

In my child-brain plan, the steps were obvious: first, get married. Then get a house. Then have a baby. Easy. Right?

Surprisingly, life kind of played along for a while. I met the guy, we dated, moved in together, got married, and bought a house. Less than six months later, we were pregnant—with a baby we’d planned right down to the optimal birth month. (July, August, or bust. We wanted a summer baby for easier school registration. We were those people.)

Abigail was so wanted, y’all. Even her due date was significant—it fell on her dad’s birthday. Although, in true dramatic fashion, she decided to show up ten days early.

I remember the moment I found out I was pregnant like it just happened. It was a freezing December night, right before the holidays. I had gone to bed, but something told me to get up and take a test—again. It was month three of trying, and I was peeing on sticks like it was my job. I snuck out of bed, took the test, saw the line, and froze.

It was positive.

I tiptoed back into the room, nudged my husband, held up the test, and he blinked and said, “Waaaaoooh.” Drawn-out and dazed. I whispered back, “Yeeeeeah.” And then we… just went back to sleep. Like people who don’t yet realize their lives have just exploded into a million beautiful (and exhausting) pieces.

The next morning, I called my OB on the way to work. Scheduled the first appointment. Told my mom and sister. And waited the longest four weeks of my life for that first scan.

Pregnancy was a rollercoaster of emotions. Every cramp, every weird twinge, sent me spiraling. “Was that blood? Was that soft cheese? Did I just accidentally poison my child with brie!?”

I was tired in ways I didn’t know were humanly possible. I’d nap after work like it was my second job, and still crash at bedtime like I hadn’t slept in days. The nausea? Let’s just say brushing my teeth became a full-body contact sport. The acid reflux was around-the-clock, no matter what I ate. But still, I told myself: you are lucky to be here. I whispered prayers for women still waiting on their own lines to appear.

The scans kept coming. And every time, baby girl was growing strong. We found out she was a girl, saw her ten fingers and ten toes, and everything felt like it was falling into place.

Until it didn’t.

At my 38-week appointment, my midwife looked at me and paused. “You’re really swollen,” she said. They ran some labs. Baby looked okay. I told them I was headed to give a training at a bank and promised to return if anything was off.

Later that afternoon, after several missed calls, I finally checked my voicemail. “Please come to Mount Auburn Hospital. Head to Labor & Delivery. Don’t panic—we just want to run a few more tests.”

I drove to the hospital alone. Walked into L&D like I was stopping by for a quick oil change.

A nurse took one look at me and asked, “Did they tell you why you’re here?”

“Just for more tests,” I said.

She gently took my hand and said, “Honey, no. You’re being admitted. You’re having the baby today.”

Preeclampsia. The same condition my mom had when she gave birth to me. The one that almost killed both of us. They weren’t taking chances. They were inducing—now.

We tried everything: the dreaded balloon (which I did not tolerate—apologies to that poor doctor), medications, monitoring. My cervix? Not cooperating. After three days, a nurse handed a doctor a note. He looked at it, then looked at me. “Forget what I just said. You’re going to the OR in an hour. We need to get your baby out now.”

Cue the tears. I had dreamed about a vaginal birth. I had prepped. But that wasn’t the story God had written for us.

I was wheeled into the cold, sterile OR, prepped for surgery, and laid down behind a curtain. I felt pressure. So. Much. Pressure. I told them I couldn’t breathe. They said it was normal. I prayed.

And then—I heard her. That first loud, beautiful cry. The kind that rewires your soul.

They handed her to me. And in that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the magnesium drip they’d soon hook up (which, by the way, made me feel like a slug with a foggy brain), not the C-section scar, not the plans that had changed.

I had her. My girl. My answer. My dream in real life.

We named her Abigail straight from a baby name book. I wanted something biblical, easy to pronounce in English and Spanish, and her dad loved the meaning: “father’s joy.” I think we got it right.

Afterward, while I was still riding the magnesium fog, I saw them—my family. My mom, my sister, my grandma, my cousins, all smiling at me in the hallway like a welcome parade. I don’t think I said much. But I smiled. I was just happy.

Happy. Tired. Grateful. Swollen. Overwhelmed. In love.

A joyful mess.

Seven years later, I still look at her and can’t believe I get to be her mom. I’d go through it all again—even the reflux, the balloon, and the magnesium—for the chance to hold her for the first time one more time.

So happy birthday, Abigail. You made me a mom. You made my dream come true.And I’ll never stop thanking God for the day I met you.

Love always,

Mommy 💛