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

Seeing Beyond the Pain

A reflection by Karen Sanderson, LPN

Not long ago, I cared for a young woman recovering from a serious accident. She had endured multiple injuries and surgeries, and her mother sat quietly at her bedside, exhausted, protective, andfilled with the kind of worry only a parent can know.

During report, I was told the patient could be “demanding.” She wanted her medications on time, to the minute, and often grew frustrated when that didn’t happen. But as I prepared to meet her, I reminded myself that every behavior tells a story, and that sometimes, what looks like anger is really fear, pain, or loss of control.

When I entered her room, she was in tears. She felt unseen, unheard, and powerless. Instead of reacting, I slowed down. I explained what I was doing, gave her choices, and let her know I was listening. That small shift — giving her control where she had none — changed everything. Her tone softened, her anxiety eased, and her pain seemed a little lighter.

I cared for her again the next day. During my shift, I changed the dressing on her external fixation pins, the first change since surgery. She had already received her routine pain medication, but I saw genuine pain on her face as I worked. Every time I accidentally bumped the metal frame, she winced and cried. So I administered a breakthrough pain medication that had been ordered for that exact reason, to relieve severe pain beyond her regular dose.

When the next nurse came on, she was frustrated. She said,“Now she’ll expect those between her routine doses, since you told her she can have them.

” I explained that the medication was given because she truly needed it — not because she asked for it, but because she deserved relief during a painful procedure.

That moment stayed with me. Too often, we in healthcare forget that patients aren’t trying to make our jobs harder — they’re trying to survive an experience they never asked for. When we let frustration or convenience decide our care, we lose sight of what nursing really is: compassion in action.

Empathy doesn’t create more work, it creates trust. And trust heals.

Our patients are more than their behaviors. Behind every sigh, every demand, every tear, there’s fear, exhaustion, and sometimes trauma too deep to put into words. We are their safety net in the storm.

I’ll never apologize for putting my patient’s needs first. Because real nursing isn’t about getting through the shift, it’s about showing up for the human being in the bed.