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

When a Friendship Starts to Feel Like Work

Ever love someone who drains the life out of you without meaning to?

Yeah… me too.

You show up, you listen, you care, but somewhere between the tears, the rants, and the same story on repeat, you start realizing you’re not in a friendship anymore… you’re in an emotional full-time job you never applied for.

You still love them, but dang, you miss fun. You miss laughing until your cheeks hurt, running errands together, sharing ideas, dreaming big. Instead, every hangout feels like walking into another episode of the same drama, and you already know how it ends.

So here’s the truth I’m learning: you can love your friend and love your peace.

You can care about someone and crave quiet.

And you don’t have to choose between being kind and being sane.

Sometimes friendship needs a gentle reboot, not to walk away, but to breathe again. To laugh again. To remember why you liked each other in the first place.

So if your friendship has started feeling like work, try this:

Look them in the eye and say, “Hey, I love you, but I miss us. Let’s talk about something that makes us smile for once.”

Because friendship isn’t supposed to feel like carrying a boulder uphill.

It’s supposed to feel like sunlight, steady, warm, and real.💛

A Note from Caring with Karen

At Caring with Karen, I believe compassion and boundaries can coexist. Real care isn’t about fixing everyone, it’s about staying whole enough to keep showing up with love.

If you’ve ever needed to hit “reset” on a friendship, you’re not alone. Sometimes peace isn’t distance, it’s clarity.