Sweet new heart momma, I know. I know this is not the Mother's Day you wanted, because I too have spent this special day watching my newborn baby struggle to breathe. I know the weight of the diagnosis you've received is overwhelming because I too have been overwhelmed. I know the sounds your voice will make as you grieve because I have made them, and I know the way your whole body will shake because I have shaken. I know the relief that a closet floor or a quiet driver's seat will bring you when you need to let it out. Your steering wheel and maybe some unsuspecting laundry will take a beating when there's no one to blame or take your punches. I have perfected the silent scream in the shower, and I know it seems like you will never be happy again.

You might look at me or read my story, and feel sorry for me. Maybe you think I’ve settled for some lesser version of life, and that my happiness is only a facade I put up; some mask that I’ve created to hide the pain I must be feeling. Friend, I am so relieved to tell you that my happiness is deeper than it was when I had only heart healthy children. There is a certain type of joy that accompanies grief, and is weirdly impossible to experience without that grief. The joy I’m talking about started out as peace, and it grew slowly. This joy was not instant, but it came much quicker than I believed it could, and I know if you just hang in there and WALK THROUGH THIS, you will find this happiness and peace as well. I’ve only been at this for 4 years, but let me give you some advice that you may not hear from your doctors:

A doctor might tell you to avoid Google. But I say, go ahead and go down the Google rabbit hole. Research the crap out of hospitals, outcomes, and doctors. Don’t choose a care plan or hospital just because you like the people that work there, or just because it’s closest to home. You are allowed to ask uncomfortable questions like, “If this was your baby, who would you want operating?” You do not need to feel guilty for asking for a second opinion from another hospital. Make flashcards of heart jargon so you can keep up during rounds. Dive in completely, and wholeheartedly (pun intended). The information will be overwhelming, and you won’t understand most of it at first, but don't be afraid of it -- you will soon know what questions to ask, and you will know when to push back. This is your new reality, and you can handle it. You have to handle it. You CAN handle it. Deep breath, sweet momma.

But also, go down another rabbit hole. Make flashcards with life-giving Scriptures written on them, to take with you into your war zone. Wear out the pages in your Bible, and pray on the floor of the closet where you also grieve. Sing to your steering wheel after punching it, and when you hear worship music, turn up the volume until you can no longer hear Satan's whispers of doubt (Spoiler alert: He doesn't actually hold much power). And when you still occasionally and inevitably fall to the floor in paralyzing grief, bring Jesus there with you (Spoiler alert: He is already there, grieving with you).

I promise two things: This journey will be surprising. And this journey will be full of blessings.

All you need to do is let Jesus come with you.

Happy Mother's Day to all the heart mommas - those of us fighting to keep our babies alive, and those who have already had to say goodbye.