Why we do this
When my sister Alyssa was pregnant with Maverick, what should have been one of the happiest seasons of her life slowly became filled with complications, fear, and constant uncertainty. There were appointments that didn’t go as planned, conversations no mother wants to have, and weeks where joy felt overshadowed by worry. I watched her try to stay strong, holding onto hope while preparing herself for the unknown.
When Maverick was born and admitted to the NICU, everything changed. The excitement of finally meeting him was immediately met with machines, wires, monitors, and medical terminology that quickly became part of our everyday language. Instead of bringing her baby home, Alyssa had to leave the hospital with empty arms. I will never forget watching my sister walk out of those doors without him — trying to be brave, trying to trust the process, but completely heartbroken.
The NICU became our second home. Long days turned into long weeks. There were moments of progress that gave us hope, and moments of setback that took our breath away. Alyssa was recovering from childbirth while spending every ounce of energy she had sitting beside Maverick’s bed, praying, advocating, and loving him through it all. The emotional toll was heavy. The exhaustion was real. And yet she showed up every single day.
When we finally got to bring Maverick home, it felt like we could finally breathe. After so much fear and waiting, he was finally in his own space. But that relief didn’t last long. Shortly after coming home, Maverick got RSV. One night, he stopped breathing. The panic of that moment is something I will never be able to put fully into words. Emergency responders were able to get him back, but instead of settling into normal life, we were back in the hospital — this time in the PICU — fighting all over again.
What was supposed to be the beginning of normalcy turned into more months of uncertainty, hospital stays, and hoping every single day that he would be okay. The PICU became another chapter in a story we never imagined we would live. Watching my sister endure that — the fear of almost losing her baby at home after finally getting him there — changed me forever.
Throughout all of it, the small gestures meant more than people realize. A snack during a long shift at the hospital. A warm blanket. A gift card for a quick meal. A note reminding her she wasn’t alone. Those small acts didn’t fix the medical crisis, but they carried her through it.
Helping Hands for NICU Moms was born from that season — from Maverick’s fight, from Alyssa’s strength, and from our family’s experience walking through both the NICU and the PICU. We know what it feels like to sit beside hospital beds for months. We know what it feels like to leave without your baby — and what it feels like to nearly lose them after finally bringing them home.
We cannot take away the fear. We cannot change a diagnosis. But we can show up. We can bring comfort into sterile rooms. We can remind mothers that someone sees them, cares for them, and is standing beside them in one of the hardest seasons of their lives.
This mission is not just something we do. It is part of our story.
And because of Maverick, we are committed to making sure no NICU or PICU mom feels alone.
RSV can be serious for babies who spent time in the NICU. Learn more in our guide to RSV after the NICU.
