Pregnancy is supposed to be one of those magical seasons. The swollen ankles, the weird cravings, even the midnight bathroom trips all feel worth it when there’s a little life growing inside. For Taylar, those early months were just that. Her belly rounded, her appetite grew, and she soaked in every flutter and kick. She had wanted this baby for so long and was determined to treasure every minute. She could already picture him, already loved him, already whispered promises to him when no one else was listening.
And then June 11th, 2015, slammed into her world like a storm she never saw coming. She was 21 weeks and 6 days pregnant, living in that golden space where everything still felt safe, and then her water broke as she walked to her bedroom. She screamed for her husband, panic rattling her voice, and the look on his pale face told her the truth before the words even came out. No mother wants to hear the words: “Your water just broke.” She shook her head and begged reality to give her a different answer. She thought about the groceries she carried, the spicy food she had eaten, every tiny action she might have done to make her body betray her. None of it made sense, but fear doesn’t care about logic.
The hospital lights were too bright, the faces too solemn. Nurses didn’t have to say anything; their eyes already said it. Colt wasn’t old enough to survive if labor started, and chances were high it would happen soon. Taylar’s sobs echoed through the room as she screamed, “I can’t lose my baby,” her voice raw and unfamiliar even to herself. Her heart broke in pieces right there on the hospital bed, while her family curled up on chairs and hallway couches just to be near. She was supposed to be glowing, not grieving.
Those first days blurred together in a haze of tests and whispered prayers. She tried to bargain with her body, holding her legs tighter, drinking more water, anything to trick her womb into keeping Colt safe. They told her survival was one percent if she somehow stayed pregnant. One percent. She clung to it anyway. They sent her home to lower infection risk, and she lived in a constant state of fear, every bump in the road feeling like the end. Her husband’s birthday came, and with it, the chance to get to a hospital with a NICU. She prayed the entire drive, asking God for mercy and someone just to let her stay.
Day after day, the doctors returned, asking if she still wanted to fight for her baby. They listed complications like a grocery list, each heavier than the last, but she never wavered. She wanted him, no matter what. When she reached 24 weeks, they called it viability. She called it a miracle. Everyone said she was strong, but in her heart, she knew Colt was the fighter. She was just the vessel, lying still while he clung to life.
Weeks crawled by until July 14th, when contractions came hard and long. Twenty-three hours of pain, and she refused medication. This was one thing she could control, one part of the journey she could own. But then blood came, too much, too fast. Her placenta had detached, and suddenly everything spiraled. As they rushed her into the OR, she begged the anesthesiologist to pray for her son. She refused to close her eyes until he promised. Colt entered the world at 26 weeks and 5 days, not breathing for three long minutes.
When Taylar finally saw him, tiny and fragile under wires and tubes, her heart split again. She had imagined newborn cheeks to kiss, not translucent skin and machines keeping him alive. Ten days passed before she was allowed to hold him. Ten days of aching arms and whispered prayers. And then months followed, long months of NICU alarms and medical diagnoses that sounded like alphabet soup. Depression crept in, anxiety clawed at her, but Colt kept fighting, and his fight became her lifeline.
They called him “Tough Hough” and “Texas Tornado,” names that carried grit. After 296 days, nearly a year of beeping monitors and sleepless nights, Colt came home. Not whole, not uncomplicated, but alive. Ventilators, trachs, medications lined up like soldiers, and still he smiled. Still, he grew. Fast forward, and the boy who wasn’t supposed to make it now walks into preschool, trach-free, pulse ox-free, eating real food, proving every doubt wrong.
Taylar knows now that strength isn’t about never breaking. It’s about holding on anyway, even when your hands shake. Colt taught her that. Sometimes God doesn’t stop the storm, she says, sometimes He lets you kneel in it so you can see the light differently when it passes.
