Four years ago today, my son was born via c-section. He was evicted early from his first home, my womb, due to sudden on-set, severe preeclampsia.

I don’t remember much about that day. I remember only: being prepped for the c-section; the hive of people in the operating room; my OB using a step stool to be at ideal height for the surgery; Dean being whisked off to the NICU; and the medical team leaving the operating room one by one until I was left with just my OB, the anesthesiologist, and a surgical tech as my body was stitched back together.

I was taken from the operating room to the antepartum unit (mommy ICU) where as I was put on a magnesium drip for 24 hours. I was not allowed out of bed and could not visit Dean in the NICU until 30 hours after his birth. Even then, I could only stay for a short time as they were checking my blood pressure every 15 minutes. Little visits to the NICU, blood draws every four hours, and the tight squeeze of the blood pressure cuff are all I really remember from that week. The only positive part of the first week of Dean’s life was the knowledge that Dean and I were safe.

Last night I was reminiscing with my husband about the experience surrounding Dean’s birthday. While February 18th is a day where we celebrate Dean’s life with parties, presents, songs and extra snuggles, the day does not only belong to him. He wasn’t the only one who was birthed that day. In so many ways February 18th is my birthday too. Birth happened through my body. In those moments I became no longer my own, but a mother to another flesh and blood human being.

That day was also a slingshot into three years thickly hazed by medical issues and doctors visits, postpartum depression, and a brain overwhelmed with the daily mental load. I lived in survival mode. The whole experience of those first years of motherhood were so complex that I didn’t feel connected to myself. My body functioned like it was a sickly stranger. I was emotionally numb and my coping skills seemed to have vanished. I felt unrecognizable compared to the vibrant Corrie I had been prior to pregnancy.

Five years later, healing and peace have done their work on me. I feel 95% righted. But I realize that I am not the Corrie I once was and I will likely never be her again. I’m still trying to articulate who exactly I am now, trying to gently welcome the new me that was birthed on February 18th 2022.

Today, I celebrate God’s grace that protected me in ways known and unknown to me, and the Spirit that certainly carried me through this dark valley. I celebrate Dr. Samantha Bunting who safely delivered our son and kept me sane through a rough pregnancy. I celebrate my husband Dennis whose goofiness and hugs have sustained me in the daily grind of life. I celebrate the constant support of my parents and cousin whose practical help has been priceless. I celebrate medications that have stabilized my health.

Most of all, I celebrate my son Dean of the most kissable cheeks, and I thank God that he gave us a mellow, happy, loving boy to bring constant sweetness to our days. Happy Birthday to us, Dean. Hand in hand, we are becoming all who we are meant to be. The future glows warm with promise.