Medical Parenting PTSD is real
And sometimes, it doesn't look like what people think trauma looks like.
Sometimes, it looks like a mom scrolling through Facebook, seeing a post about a child in the hospital, and suddenly being unable to breathe.
It looks like a NICU or PICU photo transporting you back to the machines, the alarms, and the fear.
It looks like seeing a feeding tube and remembering the moment you realised your child couldn't eat the way other children do.
It looks like seeing a child on oxygen and the moments of your own child on life-saving oxygen after resuscitation flashing rapidly through your mind.
It looks like a new diagnosis, a surgery, a hospital admission, a medication update, or a family sharing their journey… and suddenly, you're not just reading their story anymore.
You're back in yours.
Because these experiences don't just live in our memories.
They settle into our bones.
They become part of the way we move through the world.
We walk on eggshells.
We live in fight or flight, waiting for the next crisis to hit.
We scan for symptoms. We watch the numbers. We listen for changes in breathing. We prepare for the phone call, the ER visit, the unexpected admission.
And sometimes, even when things are okay…
Our bodies don't believe us.
I try so hard to always be there for the families walking the paths adjacent to our own. I want to support them. I want them to know they aren't alone. I want to be the person I needed when our own journey began.
But sometimes, their stories shake me to my core. Sometimes, I can't.
Sometimes I come across a post or a message and I'm left breathless, immediately transported back to a code being called over my baby as their heart stopped.
Back to doctors and nurses swarming in, in a panic.
Back to the earth-shattering sound of hearing my child's diagnosis said out loud for the first time.
Back to hospital rooms and clinic visits, discussing prognosis, treatment, and the possibility that there may not be a cure.
Back to hearing doctors say, "We're going to do everything we can" as they rush to restart my child's heart, resuscitate them back earthside.
Words that, in those moments, carry a weight that is impossible to explain.
And suddenly, I'm there again.
Not just remembering.
Reliving.
The fear. The helplessness. The uncertainty. The feeling of having your entire world placed in someone else's hands and praying they can save it.
And here's the thing…
Our babies are still here.
They're fighting.
They're growing.
They're laughing.
They're living and thriving.
And we are so incredibly grateful.
But that doesn't mean the trauma disappeared.
It doesn't mean our nervous systems got the memo that the emergency is over.
It doesn't mean we aren't still carrying the weight of everything we've survived.
Because while our children continue fighting for their lives, their health, their futures…
So do we.
We fight through the appointments.
We fight through the uncertainty.
We fight through the flashbacks.
We fight through the cyclical thinking of "what if's."
We fight through the death grip of a pull to research every little detail of what happened, why it happened.
We fight through the fear that the next phone call could change everything.
We fight through the moments when someone else's story opens a wound we thought had finally started to close.
Medical parenting PTSD is real.
The trauma of watching your child suffer is real.
The trauma of living in hospitals, hearing terrifying words, making impossible decisions, and constantly preparing for the worst is real.
And sometimes, the hardest part is that the world sees your child doing better and assumes you should be doing better, too.
But healing isn't always as simple as the crisis ending.
Sometimes the crisis ends, but your body is still waiting for the next one.
Sometimes you can be happy, grateful, and deeply traumatized all at the same time.
Sometimes you can celebrate your child's progress and still grieve the safety you once felt in the world.
And sometimes, you need to step away from the posts and the private messages.
Not because you don't care.
Not because you aren't supportive.
Not because someone else's pain isn't important.
But because you are carrying your own, too.
To the medical parents who are still here, still fighting, still showing up, still loving their children through things no parent should ever have to face…
I see you.
To the parents who have been transported back into their own trauma by someone else's story…
You are not broken.
Your body remembers what your heart has survived.
And to the parents who are still walking through the crisis right now…
I hope you know that someone understands how much strength it takes just to keep going.
Our babies are still here.
And so are we.
But we are allowed to acknowledge what this journey has given us.
The love.
The strength.
The gratitude.
The fear.
The trauma.
All of it can exist at the same time.
And we deserve support, too.
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