For most of my life, I was positive that I didn’t want kids. I grew up in a huge family. I was one of the oldest. I told myself I wanted to be responsible for only me, but really - I was just terrified to be a parent.

My many siblings and I were cobbled together from a mix of backgrounds. We were survivors, in all kinds of different ways. I didn’t know whether I would be equipped to be a “good mom.” What if I were miserable, and my kids knew it? What if I were deeply angry? What if I fucked it all up and my kids felt funny on Mother’s Day or Father’s Day - because I couldn’t get it together to give my kids the childhood I had wanted for myself? Because I didn’t know how.

Gradually, I became brave enough to go for it. It took a long time, and a lot of science. And one day, at only 26 weeks - four months early - two little shorties made me a parent. Our daughter was 1lb 12oz, and our son was 1lb 4oz. I cried the first time I saw them, because it was clear they weren’t ready to be born yet.

We watched both of them fight for their lives over the next few months in the Level IV NICU that we had selected. My kids had a team of over 30 medical professionals who saved them every day. We honored “little friends” in other NICU bays who suddenly passed under tragic circumstances, babies who never got a chance to meet their grandparents or aunts or uncles. We celebrated every win, no matter how small.

Then one day, they came home, and now they are almost 7 years old. Miraculously healthy and fully, wildly alive. And they taught me that even when you aren’t sure, when the way ahead is unclear and terrifying - maybe you can do it, and maybe you can make it. Not perfectly (what’s perfection anyway?) but wholeheartedly.