I walked into the hospital room excited. I saw a box with a see-through case next to the hospital bed. I saw my sister. I saw the TV set, some armchairs, and a cute sofa all set nicely, pairing with the not-too-lit room to give a homey feel. I saw all of this, but could not see what I was looking for.
“Where’s the baby?” I was about to ask when my sister beat me to it.
“Come and meet your niece.’

It was then that I looked closely at the box with a see-through case. It was an incubator, and in it was the person I had been looking for, but not quite what I expected. She had come at 24 weeks. This was the first time I would ever encounter a preemie.

A preterm baby, a.k.a. preemie, is any baby born before 37 weeks of gestation.
A full-term pregnancy is usually approximately 40 weeks. The closer it is to 40 weeks, the better. Prematurity is at different levels.

Babies born between 34 to 36 weeks are considered late preterm. Between 32 to 34 weeks is considered early preterm. Very early preterm birth is between 28 and 32 weeks, and birth at any time under 28 weeks is extreme preterm.

Coming in at 24 weeks, my niece was extremely preterm, and even though my mother was a midwife with over 25 years of experience at the time and my sister, my niece’s mother, was a Medical doctor, no one was prepared for the baby to come so early. This is often the case. I doubt anyone walks the road of pregnancy expecting to have their baby earlier than their expected date of delivery. They are, however, still human. Babies, nonetheless.

Baby was so little she looked to me like a big rat–bigger than a mouse but smaller than a human. Her skin was so thin, having minimal adipose tissue. Her fingers still appeared somewhat webbed, and she had very little hair on her body. I have heard mothers of preemies say that the child looks like a lizard. Another said that people asked her when she went home with the baby what it was that she had brought home with her. A preterm baby does not have the usual rosy, chubby look that one sees on a full-term baby. They are, however, still human. Babies, nonetheless.

Still trying to come to terms with all I was seeing, someone told me that I should sanitise my hands and come hold her. As she was handed to me, I marvelled at how little and fragile she seemed.

“She’s much stronger than she looks.”, they told me. I believe that is true about these babies, I like to think of as people who were so excited about coming to the world that they came early. These babies we now call Champions. They may appear fragile and do need to be handled with care, but they have inherent strength and a tenacity with which they face life.

15 million babies are born prematurely worldwide annually. Sadly, more than 1 million of them do not make it. Preterm babies face a lot of risks. They are at greater risk for cerebral palsy, developmental delays and hearing and visual challenges. The earlier a baby is born, the greater the risks, but when a baby comes, it comes.

Possible risk factors resulting in preterm birth include being either obese or underweight, vaginal infections, smoking and psychological stress. Other risk factors include air pollution exposure, diabetes, high blood pressure and multiple gestation (i.e., being pregnant with more than one baby). However, the cause of spontaneous preterm birth, which was the case with my sister, is mostly unknown.

It is not all bad news, though. Many preterm babies do survive, as the earlier stated statistic shows. Our support for these babies and their care providers goes a long way to help them not just survive but to thrive. As the saying goes, “It takes a village to raise a child.”

How can you help?

How can you be a part of that village that a preterm baby needs to make it?

1. Volunteer: You can volunteer to help. Some organisations help preterm babies and their nurturers. One such group is Little Big Souls, with which I am privileged to volunteer. You could consider going to a hospital in your area and volunteering to help in whatever ways they would allow. You could also consider spearheading an organisation/group yourself to serve these little humans. If there is anyone in your circle/community who has a preemie, you could consider offering them your help even when they leave the hospital and return home. Sometimes, simply having a light-hearted conversation with another adult could be just the elixir they need.
2. Donate: You could consider making donations to these help organisations/groups towards preemie support. Another thing you could do is to make donations to the Neonatal Units in any health facilities of your choice. There is a variety of equipment they need to tend to these precious babies. There are also now special preemie items, as these preterm babies do not necessarily fit into the regular clothing items for full-term babies. These are things you could consider donating to this cause.
3. Raise Awareness: Spread the word. Let others know that prematurity is not a stigma. Let them know not to blame and/or demonise mothers/families dealing with this. Let them know that though that preterm baby may not look like what they expected, they deserve a fighting chance; they need to be loved because that is a human, a baby, nonetheless.
4. Donate breast milk to the milk bank.

I remember when I finally held my niece that day at the hospital. I looked at her little face and fell in love with this precious girl who fit into both my palms held open, side by side, but was a complete human with her own likes, dislikes, nuances, and personality.

A baby, nonetheless.

Born Too Soon, Loved So Deeply: A Preemie’s Journey

Nothing truly prepares you for motherhood. Books, birth classes, and baby shopping lists are all great—but when the unexpected happens, they can’t hold your hand through the fear, the waiting, and the silent prayers whispered in hospital corridors.

This was my first pregnancy. I was overjoyed, nervous, and dreaming of the moment I would cradle my baby in my arms for the first time. Everything was going fine—until it wasn’t.

I was 29 weeks and 1 day pregnant when the doctors told me my baby wasn’t getting enough nourishment from the placenta. His weight was far below average. They said he had a better chance of survival outside the womb than inside it. My heart shattered. Then came the avalanche of warnings from the doctors—gentle but honest. They explained that because of his prematurity and low birth weight, there could be serious complications. He might not be able to see. Or hear. Or walk. His brain might not fully develop. Even if he survived, his quality of life could be severely limited. The future looked like a foggy road with no clear direction—just hope and raw faith.

I remember the delivery room like it was yesterday. My baby came into the world weighing just 890 grams—smaller than a packet of Dano milk. He was so tiny, he could fit perfectly in an adult’s two palms pressed together. No fat. His skin was wrinkled, and he looked like a miniature wise old man.

And yet—this fragile, featherweight baby was a fighter from day one. His spirit was fierce.

He was placed on oxygen immediately. Just two days after birth, with fingers as thin as chewing sticks, my little warrior did something that stunned the medical team: he pulled off his oxygen mask.

They gently placed it back on him. Moments later, he pulled it off again. It was as if he was telling us all, “I’m ready to breathe on my own. Let me try.”

So they left it off. And guess what?

He breathed perfectly.

That moment changed everything. It wasn’t just about breathing. It was a sign. A declaration. My son wasn’t giving up. He had come into this world early, yes—but he came prepared to fight.

Every step afterwards was a lesson in strength and patience. He couldn’t suck yet, so he was fed through a nasal tube. I learned to express milk and watch as it was carefully measured and delivered through the tiniest tubing into his stomach.

He couldn’t regulate his own body temperature, so the doctors encouraged kangaroo care—a beautiful, skin-to-skin method of bonding. I would place him on my chest, hold him against my skin, and wrap us both up tightly. It was our sacred routine.

And every single day, as I carried him to share my warmth, I also covered him in prayer.

I whispered scriptures over his fragile frame—words of life, strength, healing, and purpose. I read the Bible aloud to him, declaring that he would live and not die, that he was fearfully and wonderfully made, that the plans God had for him were good. I spoke those promises over him again and again as my heart cried and my spirit fought alongside his tiny one.

My heartbeat became his lullaby. My warmth became his shelter. And slowly, his body learned what mine was teaching it—to regulate, to rest, to grow.

His daddy couldn’t bring himself to carry him at first. “I’m scared he might break,” he whispered, eyes wide with both awe and helplessness. And I understood. Our son looked so delicate, like he could float away with a gust of wind. But each heartbeat of his proved stronger than we imagined.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months.

And test after test—brain scans, hearing assessments, eye exams—all came back normal. No developmental delays. No impairments. He was developing perfectly.

When we finally brought him home, it didn’t feel like we were just leaving a hospital. It felt like we were exiting a battlefield with our victorious little soldier.

Today, my son is thriving. He runs. He laughs. He plays. He asks questions. He dreams. He amazes us every day. Looking at him, you would never guess the odds he overcame to be here.

He is a living, breathing reminder that even when life begins under the harshest lights of a NICU, surrounded by machines and uncertainty, hope still finds a way to bloom.

To every mother who has held her breath in the NICU, watched her tiny baby fight battles bigger than their size, and found strength she didn’t know she had—you’re not alone. Your tears, your prayers, your fears—they all matter. And most importantly, miracles still happen.

Mine did. His name, Chukwufumnanya, is etched in my heart, not just as my son, but as the one who taught me what faith, strength, and love truly mean.