Today’s update feels like a turning point in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

After my follow-up appointment with my OB today following my maternal-fetal appointment earlier this week we went from a place of very real, very immediate day-to-day thinking with Ethan… to a possible week-to-week reality. On the surface, that sounds like good news. And in some ways, it is. But it also changed the script in ways I wasn’t expecting.

Earlier this week, everything felt urgent and fragile. We were bracing ourselves for the idea that Ethan might not be with us much longer, that at any point we could get news that his heart had stopped. We were preparing our hearts and minds for something that felt imminent. There was a strange clarity in that space, even in the grief. Hard, devastating clarity, but clarity nonetheless.

And now, suddenly, that clarity has been replaced with uncertainty again.

Instead of this could be very soon, we’re back to this could be days, weeks, or even longer. And while that sounds hopeful, it also opens the door to a whole new layer of questions, emotions, and decisions we hadn’t expected to revisit.

Ethan’s diagnosis, limb-body-wall complex, along with his other complications, still doesn’t change the reality that he is not expected to survive outside of the womb. That part hasn’t shifted. But what has shifted is the possibility that we might get to meet him alive. And that thought brings both hope and heartbreak at the same time.

It changes how we think about everything.

Just days ago, we were preparing for the idea that he wouldn’t be born alive, that we’d do something small and quiet because he would be so tiny, and because the loss felt so immediate. Now, there’s this painful, complicated possibility of meeting him, holding him, loving him for whatever time we’re given… while still knowing the outcome doesn’t change.

That emotional whiplash is hard to put into words.

It also brings up questions no parent should ever have to wrestle with.

If we make it to a certain point, 32 weeks, for example, do you choose to deliver then, knowing there’s a chance he could still be alive, even if only briefly? Do you make the decision that ends his life so that you can meet him? Or do you wait, 38 weeks, 40 weeks pushing your own body further, hoping for the longest possible time with him, even if that means risking never meeting him this side of heaven?

And layered on top of that is the reality of a C-section. Because Ethan is attached to the placenta—and the placenta is attached to me his birth would require careful navigation. There’s no guarantee he would survive the delivery itself. Even that possibility carries its own weight.

Every option feels impossible.

Every path carries grief.

Every decision feels like choosing between heartbreaks.

And yet, we’re here trying to think through things we never imagined having to think through. Trying to hold hope and sorrow in the same breath. Trying to trust God while also acknowledging how overwhelming and unfair this all feels.

My faith is what keeps anchoring me when the thoughts start to spiral. Not because it magically makes this easier, but because it reminds me that we’re not walking this alone. I don’t have clarity right now. I don’t have answers. What I have is trust for today, and that has to be enough.

We’re taking this one step, one appointment, one prayer at a time. Allowing ourselves to grieve what we thought this journey would look like, while also holding space for whatever God still has ahead, for Ethan, and for us.

Thank you for continuing to walk with us, to pray for us, and to hold Ethan so tenderly in your hearts. We feel it more than we can say.