Part 1: Where My Journey of Healing Began
“You saw me before I was born. Every day of my life was recorded in your book.”
— Psalm 139:16 (NLT)
It was 1966 in what was then a small East Bay city in Northern California. A quiet place with a single traffic light, one hospital, and a population small enough that everyone still seemed to know each other. Life moved slower then, and modern medicine had not yet reached the level we now take for granted.
My parents were young—just kids when they met in high school. Like many of their generation, they married soon after graduation and began building a life together. My dad started working at Peterbilt Motors at 18 and quickly rose through the ranks. By the time I was born, he had already risen to plant manager. My mother, precise and driven, attended beauty college and poured her perfectionism into her craft. They were hardworking, blue-collar dreamers who moved to Fremont, California, chasing opportunity and the promise of a better life.
When my mother became pregnant with me—her second child—prenatal care was limited. No ultrasounds, no routine screenings. Pregnancy in those days held far more mystery. You hoped for the best, trusted your doctor, and waited.
Her labor was long and exhausting. Once I arrived, something was immediately wrong. The delivery room did not erupt with the usual joy or cheerful announcement. There was no, “Congratulations! It’s a girl!” Only hushed voices, whispered conversations, and the worst sound of all—silence.
My mother lay there, confused and increasingly panicked. “Where is my baby?” she cried. No one answered. Her mind raced with fears of what might be revealed. Was her baby missing limbs? Was something terribly wrong? Was her baby even going to survive?
When they finally brought me to her, tightly wrapped in a blanket, the relief was immediate and brief. A doctor followed with news that would change everything.
Her newborn had a rare and serious birth defect. My bladder was exposed outside my body, resting above a split pelvis. Nothing in that region was formed or functioning normally. The doctors were even unsure of my gender. As was too common in those days, they made assumptions—suggesting I might also have an intellectual disability, a stigma often attached to babies born with physical abnormalities.
My mother took one look at me and knew: She’s a girl. She never questioned it.
While she grappled with shock in the delivery room, my father waited in the designated room for expectant fathers—a place where men made small talk, paced, or sipped bad coffee while the miracle of childbirth unfolded behind closed doors. Fathers were typically kept at a distance, yet this time felt different. He knew something was wrong. This wasn’t how it had gone with their first child. No beaming doctor. No proud announcement. No nurse inviting him to see me in the nursery. Only silence and waiting. He did not know what was happening, yet he sensed it was not good.
I do not know the details about his reaction in those early moments. Like many men of his generation, he rarely spoke about emotional things—especially painful ones. As a parent myself now, I can imagine the uncertainty, helplessness, and fear. Whatever he felt, I know it marked him, just as it marked my mother and eventually shaped much of my own life.
There was little time to process anything as my mother did not stay in that small-town hospital long. She left almost immediately, accompanying me to what was then Oakland Children’s Hospital. I am not sure how we got there or who drove, only that we arrived, and that was where my parents began to understand the full scope of what they were facing.
Doctors explained my condition in clearer detail. My bladder was completely exposed. My pelvic bones were splayed. Internal structures were uncertain. One thing was clear: this would be the beginning of a long journey. I would need multiple surgeries, a team of specialists, and years—possibly a lifetime—of medical intervention. It was far more than anyone expects when welcoming their child.
My mom always adds the same thing when she tells this story: You were just beautiful.
She knew I was a girl the moment she saw me—not because she was told, but because something in her heart recognized me. Amid all the unknowns, that certainty grounded her.
While waiting for answers in the delivery room, her mind had imagined the worst. She feared I might be missing limbs or fighting for my life. When she finally saw me—bladder exposed and all—it brought a strange peace. This, she thought, I can handle.
She brought me home from the hospital with my bladder exposed. No monitors. No surgical repairs yet. Just a young 24-year-old mother beginning an unimaginable medical journey while caring for a two year old at the same time.
It must have been overwhelming for both of my parents—the fear, the uncertainty, the constant unknowns. It was early in their marriage, still so young, and just starting their lives as parents. I imagine they leaned hard on family and the medical community around them. It is the only explanation that makes sense.
Regardless of how difficult everything was, they showed up. They fought for me. That is where my story of survival truly begins—not in a hospital, but in the hearts of two young parents who chose love over fear, again and again.
If your story began in a moment of shock or silence…
If the first chapter feels marked by fear, confusion, or disappointment…
What if that wasn’t the truest beginning after all?
Before the fear.
Before the labels.
Before the uncertainty.
You were known.
What if identity does not begin with a label, but with being seen by a faithful God who understood your story long before anyone else did?
The devotional for this post walks deeper into what it means to be known by God before brokenness was announced. It offers Scripture, prayer, and practical reflection for those longing to understand their story in light of that truth.