It all began with two little pink lines and a wave of emotions that hit like a storm. Taylor and her husband were thrilled, terrified, and everything in between. A baby girl was coming, and their hearts were already full. They named her Ajla Joy, a name that sounded like sunshine. Her nursery was pink, filled with soft elephants and dreams of giggles and bedtime stories.
But as Taylor would learn, life can turn in directions that feel impossible to survive. Around 30 weeks, during what should have been a routine checkup, silence filled the ultrasound room. The technician’s face grew serious, and Taylor’s heart sank. Moments later, she was told her placenta wasn’t feeding her baby properly and that she needed to be admitted to the hospital right away. There was no time to go home or pack a bag, only time to worry and pray.
For almost a month, she lay in a hospital bed, listening to the rhythmic sound of monitors and waiting for each new sunrise. When the doctors finally decided it was too dangerous for Ajla to stay inside, Taylor braced herself. At 8:06 a.m. on May 7, 2017, Ajla arrived, weighing just over three pounds. For a few terrifying moments, there was no sound. No cry. Taylor lay on the table begging for a noise, any noise. And then, after what felt like an eternity, her mother said the words she needed to hear, “She’s okay.”
Ajla was whisked away to the NICU, tiny but fierce. Taylor remembers seeing her daughter’s six perfect little toes, a small sign that this girl was unique. Those early days were full of cautious hope. But soon, things grew complicated. Ajla needed a feeding tube because she couldn’t swallow properly. What was supposed to be a simple procedure turned into a nightmare when doctors struggled to intubate her. Taylor waited helplessly, learning that her baby had needed CPR and suffered broken ribs. She went from being one of the healthiest babies in the NICU to one of the sickest.
For weeks, Taylor couldn’t hold her. She could only sit beside her, reading the same book daily because it was the only thing she could offer. Somehow, Ajla began to recover, and after 80 long days, she finally came home. The family celebrated, believing the worst was behind them. But life had other plans.
After only a few weeks at home, Ajla’s breathing faltered again. Hospital visits became constant, and soon doctors said she would need a trach to help her breathe. Taylor thought this would finally bring peace. Instead, it got another round of pain. The procedure didn’t go as expected, and once again her tiny body needed CPR. Taylor watched, heart shattered, whispering questions to God that no parent ever wants to ask. Then came Thanksgiving. She and her husband went home for a night, thinking Ajla was stable. At 2 a.m., the phone rang. The hospital said their baby was coding. They raced through the streets, hearts pounding, but by the time they arrived, the doctors had done everything they could. Taylor begged them not to stop, but at 2:47 a.m., her daughter was gone.
She held Ajla wrapped in her pink polka-dot blanket, refusing to let go. She and her husband carried her down the hospital hallway one last time, saying the most painful goodbye any parent could imagine. The world felt heavier after that day, the silence unbearable. In the months that followed, Taylor struggled with guilt. How could she think about having another baby after losing her daughter? But grief has strange rhythms, and eventually, she realized wanting to love again didn’t erase the love she had already given. With trembling hands and a hopeful heart, she and her husband tried again.
Fear and hope collided when she saw those pink lines for a second time. Every heartbeat and flutter reminded her of what she had lost and what she still had to give. She called this baby her rainbow, a promise after the storm. Taylor still misses her firstborn every day. She imagines what Ajla would look like, how she would laugh, how she might dance barefoot in the grass. But she believes Ajla’s short life had meaning. She learned the most brutal truth through pain and love: it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
