My first son was just seven months old when I discovered I was five weeks pregnant with my daughter. Her pregnancy wasn’t planned, but despite the surprise, I was happy and hopeful. The pregnancy itself was relatively smooth, aside from the usual morning sickness and discomforts that come with carrying a child. In fact, I felt stronger during her pregnancy than I ever did with my son, and I believed everything was going well.
The moment I gave birth to her, however, something felt different. I noticed the doctor and nurses exchanging glances. They wrapped her up quickly before handing her to me, but almost immediately, they took her back. “We want to get her cleaned up first,” they said. At the time, I didn’t understand why. I was simply overwhelmed with joy and eager to finally hold my baby after all the pain and effort of labor.
After I was cleaned up and taken to my room, my husband sat beside me and gently said, “There’s a little issue with her hand.” Fear rushed through me. I quickly uncovered her to see for myself, and that’s when I noticed her left hand was very small, bent backward, and she had only three fingers. I was shocked, but strangely calm. I placed her back in her crib and couldn’t even cry. I simply told my husband, “God created her like that.”
I called my mom and sisters to share the news. My mom was completely devastated, and I had to caution her gently, reminding her that I, the mother, was not even crying—who were we to question God? At that point, the reality hadn’t fully sunk in. I was exhausted from delivery, emotionally drained, and my mind felt blank. That night, sleep refused to come. I sat awake, watching her, adjusting her crib over and over until dawn broke.
The next day, when family members came to visit, their solemn expressions were what finally broke me. Seeing their reactions made me realize that something was indeed wrong, and I began to cry. The doctors offered no reassurance. Instead, they accused me of taking drugs during pregnancy, insisting that her deformity was a reaction caused by something I must have ingested. Forty-eight hours later, another doctor examined her and casually suggested she might have spina bifida, heart conditions, or other complications, saying babies “like these” usually come with “a lot of baggage.” I was crushed—especially since no tests had been carried out.
After I was discharged, I took her to a children’s hospital. There, the doctors examined her and said, “Everything else seems fine. Let her recover from the birthing process before running further tests.” Two weeks later, I traveled to another state to a well-known teaching hospital. After thorough examinations and multiple tests, we were finally told that she was perfectly fine—aside from her limb difference.
When I truly came to terms with her condition, my emotions unraveled. I was heartbroken and completely disoriented. I was angry at God, angry at the world, and constantly asked myself, “Why me?” I cried myself to sleep almost every night and slowly slipped into depression. I shut myself off from people and the outside world, consumed by fear for her future. I cried over the smallest things—watching my son ride a bicycle, put on socks, or do things I worried my daughter might never be able to do.
Through it all, I thank God for my number one support system: my husband. He stood by me during my darkest moments, constantly encouraging me and reminding me that our daughter would be fine regardless of her limb difference. My family, my mother-in-law, and a few close friends also surrounded me with love, even when I was too broken to give any back. During that season, I searched endlessly online and learned that my daughter’s condition is called Ulnar Deficiency.
For an entire year, I kept myself and my baby indoors, rarely going out, crying myself to sleep night after night. I was terrified of what the future held for her, especially knowing how unkind society can be. I felt it was my duty to protect her at all costs, and her beautiful smile became the one thing that kept me going during those difficult days.
We have experienced our fair share of cruel comments and outright disrespect, but through those moments, I learned an important lesson: it is my responsibility to show others how to treat me—and my daughter. When she was about to start school, I took her to what was considered one of the best schools in the area. I was shocked when the head of school told me I needed to be “prepared,” explaining that children can be very mean. She warned me that my daughter would likely be bullied and treated badly because of her limb difference. I went home heartbroken but even more determined to protect and strengthen my child.
Since then, I have learned to encourage her through challenging moments—especially when she struggles with certain tasks. I constantly remind her that she can do anything she puts her mind to, that she is not limited by her limb difference, and that she is different, not less. I celebrate her victories loudly. When she was learning to ride a bicycle, I cheered her on endlessly, reminding her she could do it. The day she finally rode without assistance, we celebrated her achievement with so much joy.
Through every high and low, this journey has taught me to always be present for my children, nurture them with love, pay attention to what brings them joy, and place my complete trust in God.
