March 18, 2026
Last night was hard. Today was hard.
But somehow… today also held a little bit of hope.
Sleep doesn’t come easily anymore. My mind feels like it’s constantly racing, jumping from one thought to the next, preparing for things I don’t even want to imagine.
The doctors say Eloira is stable—for now.
And right now, that word feels like something I’m holding onto for dear life.
I sit beside her and watch her tiny chest rise and fall. And I’m in awe.
How can someone so small be so strong?
But then the conversations start.
The doctors begin explaining the cranial scans scheduled for tomorrow. Brain bleeds. Risks. Possibilities.
Words I was never prepared to hear. They don’t sugarcoat anything.
And honestly… I don’t think I was ready for the truth.
I didn’t want statistics.
I didn’t want “possibilities.”
I wanted certainty.
I wanted someone to look me in the eyes and say:
“Your baby is going to be okay.”
But that’s not how this journey works.
Today, I touched her hand. And she didn’t pull away. That moment stayed with me.
It felt like a connection… like she knew I was there. Like even through everything—the machines, the wires, the distance—she could feel me.
And maybe she could.
The Eloira Effect 
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