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Hud, Yasin, and Deen... our three Greenies ... same same, but different. They are four years old now, and with each day, they are rewriting their origin story. With each leap, each sighting of the moon, each "lekker" and "Why does the plum have a naat?"... with each joke, story, and tear, they are stealing our hearts.

But how different it was four years ago...

The Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) in Ras Al Khaimah was where one of the biggest tests for our family played out. I can still remember the raw, overwhelming fear and grief of their premature births, yet that same space was eventually flooded with overwhelming, fierce gratitude and joy for their lives.

Do you know the feeling when fear becomes a constant weight, holding your body hostage and making rest impossible? When overwhelming grief drains every last tear, leaving your soul utterly spent and silently pleading to God for release? Our family knows this well. Scattered across continents, we were suddenly required to rally and move in sync. From miles away, we prayed, we wept, and we waited.

Though I wasn't physically there, every heartbeat, every whispered update, every photo sent from the NICU tethered me to them. My Aish, my spirit twin, had become a mother in the most courageous way imaginable, navigating fear and faith in equal measures. She and Yusuf were the anchor for their three tiny sons, just as she had always been for us.

Those early days were a blur of beeping monitors, medical terms, and prayers that never seemed to stop. The boys, each fitting in the palm of a hand, became our entire world. Each day was measured not by hours, but by grams gained, by stable oxygen levels, and by the brief, dizzying moments of stability that felt like an entire lifetime of hope.

Amidst the exhaustion and the distance, something sacred unfolded.

We began to understand the true power of connection through the quiet, unseen thread of love that runs through a family. Across oceans and time zones, we became warriors. Our voices rose in prayer, our belief in miracles deepened, and our faith was cemented, the kind that lives deep in our ancestral bones. To this day, I swear I can still hear the fervent, melodious prayers imploring the Creator for three miracles echoing across the deserts and oceans.

The NICU is its own kind of world, one that only those who have walked through it truly understand. It’s a place where science and spirit meet; where parents learn that strength is sometimes just getting through the next minute. It’s a space where you hold onto hope, even when your hands are trembling. It’s that moment when they are resting against your bare skin and you transmit your will to them, that survival becomes non-negotiable.

The waiting, the fear, the hope that never quite rests...it’s all part of a journey. Ours ended in joy, and we know it took a miracle. And we are profoundly grateful. Our three boys came home. Slowly, steadily, beautifully, they grew stronger. Each milestone since has felt like a blessing.

Looking back now, I realize those six weeks changed us all. They taught us that love doesn’t need proximity to be powerful, that faith can truly cross continents, and that sometimes the smallest lives can teach the biggest lessons.

This post is dedicated to Hud, Yasin & Deen who fought like champions, 

and their mom & dad, Aishah & Yusuf who showed us the power of parental love.