08/07/2026
Most of you don’t know this about me. Only close friends, family, & some coworkers at the time.
About a decade ago, while working as a nurse in a children’s hospital, I received a 7 month old baby girl from the ER. A child abuse case.
Broken femur. Other injuries. Hurt by the very people who were supposed to be the safest place in her world. Her parents.
I was her nurse.
I will never forget the night I met her. I remember her grungy little pajamas. Her eyes. Her tiny body. How awkward it felt trying to figure out how to hold something so small with such significant injuries. There was something so heartbreaking about holding a baby who should have known nothing but gentleness while having to be so careful because someone had already caused her so much pain.
I fell completely in love with her. I wanted to adopt her. I even started trying to get the ball rolling in that process.
I bought her clothes and blankets. I came to the hospital when I wasn’t working just to rock her and play with her. She even looked like me. She was, in my heart, “my baby.” I just wanted her to feel warmth. Safety. Love.
She was too young to consciously remember me, but I’ve always hoped that somewhere deep inside, her nervous system did. That somewhere among those tiny neuronal pathways being formed, her body learned:
Hands can be gentle.
Arms can be safe.
People can be kind.
Love exists here, too.
And then one day, I came to work…and she was gone. She had been discharged to another family member who was supposed to be safe. No goodbye.
I have thought about her since.
Today, I was reminded of her in a very big way. The details aren’t mine to share here. And suddenly, a decade disappeared.
I’ve wondered what she looks like. What makes her laugh. Praying she is happy. Hoping she has been loved so deeply that it washed over every subconscious remembrance of those who hurt her.
And it took me down memory lane.
There are things I’ve witnessed in healthcare that I cannot talk about. Things I wish I could unsee. Faces, families, children, and moments that can come flashing back with unbelievable clarity.
I started this career young, and it shaped me in all the ways (the good, the bad, and the ugly).
That baby wasn’t the only abused child I cared for. Not even close.
Healthcare asks something of you that is difficult to explain unless you’ve lived it. So this is for the healthcare workers who still care deeply. The ones who go home thinking about their patients.
The ones who have cried in supply closets, bathrooms, cars, and driveways.
The ones who have held someone’s hand through their worst day.
The ones who have rocked somebody else’s baby like she was their own.
You may never know what happened after they left your care. They may never remember your name. They may not consciously remember you at all.
But maybe the gentleness mattered anyway. Maybe the safety mattered. Maybe being loved, even briefly, left an imprint.
Maybe that’s one of the quiet miracles of caring for another human being:
We don’t always get to see what grows from the love we give.
We just plant it.
So, to the healthcare workers who genuinely care…who sacrifice physically, mentally, and emotionally to care for another human being:
Thank you.
What you do matters.
And wherever “my baby” is, a tiny piece of my heart has always belonged to her. ❤️
