The Night I Went Into Labor at 26 Weeks

There are moments in life when fear and strength sit side by side, and you don’t realize which one is carrying you until much later.
For me, that moment came the night I went into labor at just 26 weeks pregnant.

I was young, confused, and completely unaware that what I was feeling was labor. I just knew my back hurt. I kept trying to get comfortable. I walked. I paced. I soaked in a warm bath, not realizing it was actually speeding up the process. I kept trying to use the bathroom, thinking I needed to go — not knowing I was actually trying to push out a tiny baby fighting to enter the world.

Looking back, I wish I had someone in the room who recognized what was happening.
But at the time, I was alone.

By the next morning, the pain was undeniable. After talking with my doctor, I rushed to the hospital. They checked me, and the doctor walked in with a seriousness that made the room feel smaller.

His words are something I’ll never forget:

“We’re having a baby today.”

I remember saying, “No we’re not… it’s too soon.”
But there was no stopping what was already in motion.

Within two hours of arriving, I delivered a 2 pound 8 ounce baby girl — tiny, fragile, and fighting from the very first breath. I heard the faintest cry before they intubated her and placed her in an isolette for transport to a larger hospital.

The moment she left the room, everything inside me shifted.
I was a mother.
And I was terrified.

I spent that first night alone in the hospital, recovering physically but unable to rest emotionally. There is a specific kind of ache that comes from being separated from your newborn — an ache that reaches into a place you didn’t know existed.

When I was discharged after 24 hours, my stepmom picked me up. I packed my bags, got in my car, and drove myself to the hospital where my daughter had been transported. Nothing could keep me away from her.

She spent two months in the NICU.
Ventilated. Monitored. Protected by teams of nurses and doctors who became family.
I pumped every three hours — determined to give her the best start I could.

And she fought.
And she lived.
And she grew into the woman she is today.

That experience changed me forever.
It shaped my empathy as a nurse.
It shaped my strength as a woman.
It shaped my heart as a mother.
And it taught me that even in the moments when I felt the most alone, I was never truly without strength.

Sometimes the hardest beginnings make the strongest souls — for both mother and child.

If you’re walking through your own unexpected chapter — motherhood, caregiving, or navigating life alone — you don’t have to do it by yourself.
This is why I created Caring With Karen.

💛 Book a session: caringwithkaren.com

The Day My Childhood Ended

There are moments in life that shape us long before we understand why.
For me, that moment came at 13 years old.

My family was going through a difficult time, and my mother made a decision that led her onto a different path. As a child, I didn’t understand the complexities adults carry, the emotions they battle, or the pain they hide. I only understood the quiet that settled into our home the day she left.

Suddenly it was just me and my daddy, trying to navigate a world that felt unfamiliar. He was a good man with a tender heart, and I watched him try to stay strong even when it was clear he was hurting. There’s a kind of ache a child feels when they see their parent in pain — a mix of confusion, fear, and love all tangled together.

And something in me shifted.

I cooked.
I cleaned.
I worked.
I grew up quietly, and quickly.

I didn’t resent it — I adapted.
I didn’t hate anyone — I just learned.
I didn’t become bitter — I became strong.

That season wasn’t about blame or anger.
It was about survival, love, and learning how to keep going when life doesn’t go the way you expect. It was the beginning of a strength I didn’t realize I was building — the same strength that carried me through motherhood, loss, nursing school, grief, and every difficult chapter that came after.

Looking back now, I see that 13-year-old girl clearly.
She didn’t understand everything happening around her — how could she?
But she did what she knew: she helped, she tried, she cared, she grew.

And that girl is still inside me.

She’s the reason I’m compassionate.
She’s the reason I work so hard.
She’s the reason I show up for others the way I do.
She’s the reason Caring With Karen exists at all.

Because strength isn’t built in the easy seasons.
It’s built in the moments we never asked for, but somehow survived.

As I step into this new chapter — choosing to go back for my RN at 47 — I carry her with me.
Her grit.
Her heart.
Her resilience.

She didn’t know it then, but she was preparing me for the woman I would one day become.

And today, I honor her by continuing to rise.

If my story resonates with you and you’re navigating your own hard chapter, you don’t have to walk it alone.
This is why I created Caring With Karen — a place for compassion, clarity, and support.

💛 Book a session: caringwithkaren.com