Where is God in the NICU?

The NICU is one of those places you never imagine yourself walking into—until suddenly, you’re living there. The beeping machines, the sterile halls, the rollercoaster of updates and setbacks. It’s a world that moves fast and slow all at once. And if you’ve been there, you know: it’s a kind of trauma that’s hard to explain to someone who hasn’t sat in that space.

As a Christian counselor and a NICU mom myself, I want to speak directly to the woman who’s still carrying that experience—in her body, in her thoughts, in her spirit. Whether your baby is currently in the NICU or years have passed and you’re only now starting to process it all, you’re not alone. And what you’re feeling is valid.

What NICU Trauma Can Look Like

Trauma from the NICU often doesn’t show up right away. For many women, the focus is on survival in those early days. You push through the fear, the exhaustion, and the deep ache of being separated from your baby—sometimes without even realizing the toll it’s taking.

Later, you might notice:

• Racing thoughts or constant “what if” thinking

• Panic or dread when walking into a hospital, hearing alarms, or even holding your baby

• Guilt over not being able to carry to term or “do more”

• Nightmares, flashbacks, or intrusive memories

• A deep sense of anxiety that lingers long after discharge

This is trauma. And it’s real.

In my practice, I work with NICU moms who are high-achieving, deeply caring women—but after their NICU experience, they feel like a shell of who they once were. They tell me things like:

“I should be grateful—why can’t I just move on?”
“Maybe my faith isn’t big enough.”
“If God was with me, why did He let this happen?”

These thoughts come from a place of pain, fear, and confusion. They’re also rooted in cognitive distortions—untrue beliefs that trauma plants in our minds when we’re at our most vulnerable.

So…Where is God in the NICU?

This is a question I wrestled with, too.

I remember sitting in a sterile and uncomfortable hospital chair next to my daughter’s isolette, watching numbers rise and fall, hearing specialist’s concerns about her eating, wondering if I’d ever take her home. My prayers weren’t eloquent - they were desperate. Sometimes, they didn’t even sound like prayers at all. Just groans, tears, silence.

But here’s what I’ve come to know as true—both as a therapist and a mom:

God is in the NICU.

He’s in the nurse who gently reassures you at 3 a.m.
He’s in the breath your baby takes when the odds weren’t in their favor.
He’s in the tears you cry when you can’t hold it together another day.
He’s not distant. He’s not punishing you.
He’s holding space for your grief and your hope.

Psalm 34:18 says, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” There’s no clearer picture of this than a NICU mom in the middle of her storm.

Healing from NICU trauma doesn’t mean forgetting what happened. It means learning how to name your pain, challenge the lies you’ve believed, and find peace again—even if it still feels hard.

In counseling, I walk with women through that process. We talk about what it means to grieve, to trust God when the future is uncertain, and to reclaim your identity—not as a mom who’s “broken,” but as a deeply loved daughter of God who did the best she could in an impossible situation.

You are not weak because you’re still struggling.
You are not faithless because you have questions.
You are human. And healing takes time.