Premature Birth: A Mother’s True Story and How to Find Support

When You Meet Your Baby Before You’re Ready

Like most expectant mothers, I painted my pregnancy in soft pastels. I pictured a calm, glowing journey that would end exactly as I’d dreamed — joyful tears, a tiny body curled against mine, the intoxicating scent of newborn skin, and the first precious moments of our life together.

But fate doesn’t always knock before entering. Sometimes, it storms in, rearranging every neatly laid plan.

My daughter decided to arrive at 31 weeks.

We left the maternity ward with empty arms — no tiny bundle to cradle on the way home. Instead, I carried my hospital bag and a breast pump. In my chest there was only emptiness, fear, and a silent prayer I didn’t even have words for.

Her place was not in my arms, but in the neonatal intensive care unit — surrounded by machines that kept her alive, alongside other tiny warriors who had also arrived far too soon.

In that ward, babies weren’t simply born — battles were fought.

And we were in one.

The ache of not being able to hold your child when you most need to feel them alive is not something you can explain. You live it. You count endless minutes heavy with fear and guilt — and yet, somehow, with hope. That fragile body behind the incubator becomes your whole world. And all you can do is wait, and pray.

The journey after discharge is nothing like the glossy pages of baby magazines.

It isn’t filled with balloons, strolls in the park, and first family portraits. It’s filled with questions.
Endless questions.

Should I take her to a neurologist? Which therapies are right? How do I feed her? Should I vaccinate? When? How?

The internet is a sea of opinions, and you are left to navigate it alone. Yes, there is a baby in your home — but in your heart, there’s a vast landscape of uncertainty.

Premature birth is not just a medical term.
It’s a life-altering experience that reshapes you from the inside out.

In those months, I realized how much I longed for a place to meet others like me. To cry without judgment. To laugh without guilt. To ask my questions without shame. To share my fear without being told what to do — but simply to be heard.

Years passed. My daughter grew into a brave, bright soul. But the scars of those early days run deep, even if they are invisible. And they still echo when I remember.

When you’ve been through a premature birth, the thought of another child isn’t just a new hope — it can be a new fear.

Then, it happened. I was pregnant again.
The first thing I felt was not joy, but panic.

“No! I can’t go through this again!”

Fear gripped me. Anger bubbled up. Shame whispered that I should have “been more careful.” The months that followed were full of check-ups, therapies, tests, and constant anxiety. But this time, there was something different — the quiet knowledge that I was no longer the woman who had left the hospital with empty arms.

I had grown.
And I was ready to reach for the hands of others walking that same uncertain road.

Today, I am a psychologist. And I know there is no encounter more sacred than standing before a frightened mother or a weary father and saying:

“I understand. You are not alone. We can walk through this together.”

If you are reading these words and your heart aches because you see your own story in mine…
If you still haven’t forgiven yourself…
If every worry about your child comes with a wave of guilt or a knot of fear…
If you sometimes wonder whether you are “enough” because your start wasn’t the one you imagined…

Come.

My door is open. And here, you will find not only a therapist, but someone who has stood exactly where you are now.

With love and understanding,
Petya Bankova
Psychologist & Mother of a Premature Baby

P.S. And here she is — my little warrior, all grown up.