Hynlee’s Story
O Warrior Stories
Written by: Martina Scott-Holloway
There are moments in life that divide time into “before” and “after.” For our family, one of those moments happened during a routine 20-week anatomy scan. Before that appointment, I imagined a typical pregnancy, bringing home our baby girl, watching her grow alongside her big brother, and counting down the weeks until we could finally meet her, but then we were told she had an omphalocele. The word itself felt heavy, unfamiliar and terrifying. Suddenly the future I had imagined became clouded with questions no one seemed able to answer—would she survive? Would she have a normal life? Would she be healthy? The truth was that nobody could tell us much because omphaloceles are unpredictable and there wasn’t a clear roadmap, only that so much depended on what would happen after she was born, so we waited and worried and hoped, with every week bringing another appointment, another ultrasound, another specialist, another search for answers no one could fully give. January 23, 2026 finally arrived, and at 37 weeks pregnant I delivered my daughter by C-section at exactly 2:24 PM, a number that stopped us in our tracks because years earlier my fiancé and I had tattooed 2:24 on ourselves, meaning “today, tomorrow, forever,” and somehow our daughter chose that exact moment to enter the world; I don’t know if it was coincidence or fate, but in a season filled with uncertainty it felt like a reminder that she was exactly where she was meant to be.
From her very first breath, Hynlee began writing her own story. She was breathing room air with no ventilator support. In the NICU, she received IV nutrition for the first four days before transitioning to breast milk feeds. Her omphalocele contained her gallbladder, liver, and portions of her intestines. When her care team began gradually working with her omphalocele, she needed oxygen support for three days. She had an NG tube for 21 days as she learned how to take full feeds at her own pace. Every step was slow and careful, but she kept moving forward, showing us her strength in the quietest ways.
Today, Hynlee is a bright, expressive baby whose presence fills every room she’s in. She has bright blue eyes that take in the world with curiosity, the sweetest smile, and dimples that appear every time she grins. Her little hands are almost always in her mouth, and she watches everything around her like she’s trying to understand it all at once. She is small, but her personality is anything but—she is joyful, alert, and full of life in a way that feels bigger than her body.
At home, she has a big brother who is just a year and five days older than her. He adores her completely, watching over her, including her in his world, and finding ways to be near her in every moment. Their bond is already something special—simple, natural, and full of love that doesn’t need to be taught.
Hynlee still has a journey ahead of her, with surgery scheduled for August 12, 2026, just shy of seven months old. There are still fears and unknowns and days when being her mother means carrying worries I wish I didn’t have to carry, but her story has already taught me that the diagnosis was never the whole story, the NICU was never the whole story, and the fear was never the whole story; the whole story is a little girl who arrived at 2:24 PM and immediately showed us what resilience looks like. A family learning that hope and fear can exist together. Choosing love when certainty isn’t available. Discovering strength you never knew you had because your child needed you to find it. Most of all, the whole story is Hynlee. a tiny girl, a giant personality, a warrior, a miracle, and a living reminder that sometimes the stories we fear most become the stories we are most grateful to tell.
