The past few days have been… a lot.
I’ve been trying to keep up, but honestly, I feel like I’m slipping.
The doctor told me to rest—to let my body heal. But instead, I found myself clearing out an entire room in my house. Lifting, moving, pushing myself far beyond what I should be doing.
My mom was worried. But I didn’t care.
I wasn’t eating. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I just needed to do something—anything—to keep my mind from going to places I didn’t want it to go.
Because when I sit still… everything catches up to me.
And I don’t know if I’m strong enough to face it all at once.
There were moments I didn’t even want to visit Eloira. And that thought alone made me feel like a terrible mother.
But no matter how I felt, I still went. Once. Sometimes twice a day. Like clockwork.
Because even when I feel broken…
I am still her mom.
Seeing her in the NICU is still something I can’t get used to.
Her tiny body. The tubes. The lines—even in her belly button. It’s the strangest, most heartbreaking thing I’ve ever seen.
The doctors explained everything—how it helps her, why it’s necessary—but knowing that doesn’t make it easier.
Now they’re placing a PICC line.
Even hearing about it made my stomach turn.
Everything about this journey feels scary.
And then… another hit.
She has an infection in her airway.
It’s hard to stay positive when it feels like every piece of good news comes with something else attached to it.
Still… I’m grateful. Grateful that my mom is here with me.
Because I truly don’t know how I would do this alone.
The Eloira Effect 
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