I married my husband in June of 2016. From the very beginning, we were excited to start our family, even though I already had a daughter from a previous relationship. My husband treated her as his own, and his love for her made everything feel right. Shortly after our courthouse wedding, we discovered I was pregnant, and our joy was immeasurable. We were both working full-time, juggling jobs and life, when about five weeks into the pregnancy, I felt a strange sensation at work. I excused myself to the restroom—and was horrified to see crimson red flowing down my legs. I immediately told my boss I needed to see a doctor. My husband rushed me to the clinic, and as I feared, the ultrasound revealed there was no heartbeat. Our baby was gone. Devastation consumed us, but I felt grateful that only a few close friends and family knew I was pregnant. We decided not to tell our daughter, thinking it would be too confusing for her at such a young age.
Time passed, and I did my best to heal. I returned to work and also began my new position at a local funeral home, pursuing the career I had planned. Around early November 2016, I felt off and took another pregnancy test—this time, it was positive. I couldn’t believe it. I showed my husband, and his excitement matched mine. We booked an appointment with our doctor immediately, hopeful and cautiously optimistic.
About eight weeks into this pregnancy, I experienced spotting again. One evening, I went to the bathroom, and suddenly, blood poured down my legs. I nearly fainted. My husband called 911, and I was rushed to the emergency room. To our relief, the baby was fine, moving and healthy on the ultrasound. The doctors explained I had a subchorionic hemorrhage, and I was advised to take it easy, avoid driving, and go on bed rest. It was difficult because I was determined to finish my mortuary science classes, but my husband reassured me, saying my only focus should be my health and the baby’s.
Over the next 19 weeks, I continued to hemorrhage, yet every ultrasound showed our baby thriving. We learned we were having a boy and named him Thorsten—Thor for short—because he seemed strong even amidst the uncertainty. Our daughter was overjoyed to be gaining a sibling. My husband, Steve, worked tirelessly as a diesel technician, taking long hours and overtime to provide for us. At the beginning of April 2017, we moved to a new apartment to reduce rent and be closer to family support for my high-risk pregnancy, though the move itself brought extra stress.
On April 29, 2017, I woke to another hemorrhage, this time accompanied by contractions. We rushed to the hospital, and at just 27 weeks gestation, I delivered our tiny son via emergency C-section. Thorsten weighed only 2 pounds, 5.2 ounces. We were in shock, unsure how to process what had just happened. For three long months, we watched him in the NICU, enduring heel sticks, blood transfusions, and all the challenges of premature life. It was isolating and exhausting, yet we found community among other NICU parents and the nurses who cared so deeply for our son.
Finally, on July 13, 2017, Thor came home. Our joy was boundless, and our daughter could hardly contain her excitement. Given his small size—only six pounds at three months old—I stayed home while Steve continued to work, and we shared night-time feedings, medications, and diaper duties. Even in those moments, I often felt alone, confined indoors to protect his fragile immune system.
As months passed, we realized Thor was not meeting developmental milestones. We consulted a developmental pediatrician, who suggested waiting until his second birthday. Watching him struggle to sit, crawl, and walk was heart-wrenching, and I noticed he rarely made eye contact or engaged in peekaboo. Something inside me told me to act, and when he turned two, our fears were confirmed: Thor was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder.
We threw ourselves into early intervention programs, therapies, and relentless practice at home. To support Thor, we moved from New Jersey to Pennsylvania, enrolling him in new programs that allowed him to make gradual progress. Our daughter became an incredible helper, reading to him and showing him new skills. Steve, my rock, attended IEP meetings, first days of school, and daily sessions of learning and play, all while working full-time. Slowly, Thor began to communicate through words and gestures.
Through this journey, I met Heather, a fellow special-needs parent, who became my closest friend. Her support during IEP meetings, behavioral challenges, and the isolation of a global pandemic has been invaluable. We share frustrations, victories, and the small triumphs of raising a child on the spectrum.
Now, as we approach our fifth wedding anniversary, I reflect on how far we’ve come. Thorsten, once a fragile 2-pound preemie, is now a joyful, curious, and silly four-year-old. He shows love in his own way, and we celebrate every milestone, big or small. Steve continues to be our unwavering anchor, and I attend therapy to ensure I can provide the best support for our family.
I want other parents to know: if you are in the NICU beside your tiny baby, there is hope. If you have just received an autism diagnosis, you are not alone. The journey is hard, isolating, and overwhelming, but with love, perseverance, and support, you will find joy and connection. Our family has endured heartache, fear, and uncertainty, but we have also experienced triumph, love, and hope. As one NICU nurse told us, “You’ll get there, and you’ll look back and say, ‘Wow, I made it.’” And we did.
Thank you to our friends, family, and the incredible nurses who supported us. Thank you to Heather for her unwavering friendship. Most of all, thank you to my husband, Steve, my rock and the heart of our family. Through every trial, love has carried us—and it always will.
