Wyatt, 31 weeks

Miracle mum Meaghan shares Wyatt's story:

Our journey to Wyatt began long before his birth.

My husband Luke and I spent over four and a half years trying to fall pregnant. Along the way, we experienced two heartbreaking miscarriages - losses that changed the way I would experience pregnancy forever. Eventually, we turned to IVF, stepping into a world filled with hope, uncertainty and emotional exhaustion. After one egg retrieval we were incredibly fortunate to have seven healthy embryos, but after one failed transfer, we braced ourselves for more disappointment.

When we finally fell pregnant with Wyatt on our second transfer, I wish I could say it was joyful - but the truth is, it was anything but. After everything we had been through, I was consumed by fear. I felt robbed of the excitement pregnancy is “supposed” to bring. Every scan, every symptom, every moment was filled with anxiety. I struggled to believe this pregnancy would end in anything other than loss. Early bleeding and repeated scares only reinforced that fear, and I was later diagnosed with a subchorionic haematoma.

By the time we transitioned to public care, things seemed to 'settle', and for a brief moment, I let myself believe we might have a “normal” pregnancy. But at 28 weeks, everything changed. A routine check flagged concerns about Wyatt’s growth/my fundal height and within hours we were sent to the Women’s and Children’s Hospital in Adelaide to see the Maternal Fetal Medicine (MFM) team. I still remember how quickly things escalated and how little we were told at first. It was terrifying.

We were soon told Wyatt had severe intrauterine growth restriction (IUGR), with absent and sometimes reversed blood flow through the placenta, along with a marginal cord insertion. At the same time, I was diagnosed with asymptomatic preeclampsia. Within days, I was admitted to hospital at 29 weeks. Those two weeks were incredibly challenging. We were living in constant uncertainty, being told we wouldn’t make it anywhere near full term (with the goal being 32 weeks), but not knowing when everything would change. It was a mental game where hope and fear existed side by side, every single day.

We toured the NICU and began preparing for a reality we had never imagined - a premature baby, a long hospital stay and a completely different start to parenthood. Underneath it all was a feeling I couldn’t shake: that I had failed. Failed to carry my previous babies, failed to conceive without IVF and now failing to keep this baby safe inside me until term. It consumed me.

When Wyatt’s condition became more concerning, the decision was made to deliver him via emergency caesarean at 31 weeks and 3 days. We were told not to expect him to cry and not to expect to hold him (don't even get me started on the 'golden hour'!). Wyatt entered the world weighing just 1040 grams. I held him for only a few seconds before he was taken to the NICU with Luke, while I remained behind being stitched back together - physically separated from my baby, with no idea if he was okay.

That was the beginning of our NICU journey.
Nothing prepares you for it. The grief is complex. Not just fear for your baby, but grief for the pregnancy you didn’t have, the birth you didn’t get and the early days of motherhood you imagined. There’s something deeply unnatural about needing permission to hold your own baby and looking at them through a plastic box, not knowing what their face looks like underneath wires and tubing.

For me, there was also something else I didn’t expect... I felt incredibly disconnected. After waiting over 10 hours before I could physically get to the NICU, I don’t even remember meeting Wyatt properly for the first time. I went through the motions. I showed up every day, learned the NICU language, asked questions and advocated for him as best I could. I did his cares, held him and followed the routine. But I didn’t feel like his mum. I didn’t feel that overwhelming rush of love people talk about, and that scared me more than anything.

While I watched other parents cry at the bedside, I felt numb - removed, like I was existing in a completely different version of time. With support, especially from Luke, I was able to speak up about how I was feeling and get help while we were still in hospital. Slowly, things began to shift. That connection did come, but for me it didn’t fully land until we brought Wyatt home.

One of the most defining moments of our NICU stay wasn’t a big medical milestone - it was moving into an open cot. For the first time, I could pick him up whenever I wanted. No asking, no waiting, no barriers. It was the first time I truly felt like his mum. Something so simple, yet something so many parents never have to think twice about.

Despite how hard it was, there were also moments of light. I found an incredible community in other NICU parents - people who understood this world in a way no one else could, many of whom are still part of my everyday life. I saw just how strong and remarkable these tiny babies are, and the strength in my husband and our relationship - not because we chose it, but because we had to. We learned to celebrate everything: every gram gained, every tube removed, every small step forward. Programs like the Tiny Stars Beads helped us mark those moments, giving meaning to milestones others might not see, and we leaned on others in ways we never had before.

After everything we had been through, bringing Wyatt home felt surreal. And in the months that followed, as the fog began to lift and my connection to him deepened, I found myself reflecting on just how much that journey had changed me.

What I didn’t expect to come out of all of this was becoming a published author and illustrator. In the depths of our NICU journey, I had felt there was a gap - a lack of stories that truly reflected the complexity of this experience. The grief, the guilt, the disconnect, the hope, the love, the loss … all existing at once. So I created the book I wish I had in those early days. *Brave Beginnings* became, in many ways, my second baby to leave the NICU and a pivotal part of my healing. It gave me a way to process everything we had been through, and to create something meaningful from the hardest chapter of our lives.

Because if there’s one thing I want other parents to know, it’s this: you are not alone in how you feel. Not in the fear, the grief, the guilt or even the disconnect. There is no “right” way to experience this journey. And even in the hardest, most uncertain beginnings… there can still be connection, healing, and so much love waiting on the other side.