Eight years ago, on a day that still lives in my bones, something both tragic and miraculous unfolded. My wife, Robyn, had reached a point where her brain had stopped working. Yet, her body, and her heart, held on. Held on for our son, Iver. For weeks 22 through 28 of her pregnancy, it was as though time itself was suspended — suspended between losing someone I loved and welcoming someone I needed.
In those early pregnancy weeks, everything felt delicate. In the hospital, there were monitors, machines, and doctors working with a fragile balance of hope and heartbreak. Robyn’s brain was no longer functioning. Yet, somehow, her body continued, keeping Iver alive, growing — every kick, every heartbeat a testament to the invisible threads of love and determination. We all knew the risks. We all knew the pain that could follow. But in that room, none of that erased the possibility of something beautiful.
Then came the moment when time ran out. Robyn was taken off life support, at 28 weeks. What followed—five hours with Iver, five hours of holding both grief and joy in my arms—were the hardest of my life. To meet my son, so small, so vulnerable, so perfect, knowing I would be saying goodbye to the woman I loved. The weight of that goodbye, the sorrow, the love, the fierce pride—it’s impossible to describe with words alone.
Iver was born at 2 pounds 13 ounces. He was premature. He was fighting. And I was terrified. I watched him be taken to the NICU, tubes, wires, monitors blinking with the rhythm of his breath. For twelve weeks, those were our lives: hospital rounds, sleep deprived nights, tiny blankets, hopeful prayers. Every small milestone felt huge. Every gram gained, every breath held longer—moments I memorized, moments I feared might never come.
Then came the day I got to bring him home. That feeling—walking out of the hospital carrying him—was as much a gift as it was a reminder. A gift because here he was, alive and breathing, here he was, my son, carrying part of his mother’s legacy. A reminder because the cost had been more than I ever thought I could pay.
Eight years have passed since that day. Eight years of joy that have in no way erased the pain. Eight years of watching Iver grow into someone beyond what I dared hope: incredibly smart, funny in the way only kids can be, caring, outgoing, loving, thoughtful, adventurous, kind. He asks questions, climbs trees, laughs at silly jokes, comforts those around him. He has his mother’s gentleness, her light. In him I see what Robyn would have been proud of.
Today, on his eighth birthday, I look back with gratitude. Grateful for the time I had with Robyn, even though it was too short. Grateful for every single breath of Iver’s life so far—for every smile, every bedtime story, every scraped knee and band-aid, every joke and hug. Life doesn’t always give you what you want. Sometimes its gifts are wrapped in tears and fear. But sometimes they’ve got gravity and grace that you could never imagine until they land in your arms.
Happy birthday, Iver. Eight years. You are everything that was worth it.