By Laura Johnstone
If you’d asked me from the age of three until I was 18 what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would’ve said a nurse. Every single time.
That might sound unusual for someone so young to be so sure, but for me, it made perfect sense. I was born prematurely, at just 28 weeks and five days, in a time when neonatal care was still in its early stages. I spent so much of my childhood in and out of hospital that it became a second home. It wasn’t just the place I survived—it was the place where I learned compassion, resilience, and the power of care.
The nurses weren’t just medical professionals—they were my family’s support system. They held my mum through moments of deep fear and uncertainty, and those acts of kindness shaped my understanding of what it means to show up for someone. That’s where the seed was planted—I didn’t just want to get better. I wanted to give back.
That said, there’s one moment my mum told me about that’s never left either of us. After my twin brother, Nicholas, passed away, a nurse said something so cold that it’s stayed with my family ever since. She told my mum, “Don’t think of him as a baby. Think of him as body parts gone wrong.”
My mum never got to see Nicholas. Not even once.
And when you’re grieving, those moments matter. Words matter. That lack of compassion from one person had a lasting impact—but it also highlighted just how important the right support is. Because the other nurses? The ones in neonatal who helped care for me—they were the ones who helped my mum through a grief that’s never really gone away. They held her heart as much as they held mine.
Fast forward to years later, when my own daughter, Amelia, was born prematurely. Suddenly, everything came full circle.
There’s one moment that still brings me to tears when I think about it. Amelia had just been born, and one of the neonatal doctors who helped deliver her on the Wednesday—Magali—had her days off on Thursday and Friday. When she came back in on the Saturday and listened to the handover, she noticed Amelia’s name wasn’t mentioned. The first thing she said was, “Bed nine—what happened? What happened to the baby with the umbilical cysts?”
They told her, “Oh, she’s moved into Room One,” because Amelia was doing so well. Without skipping a beat, Magali said, “I’ll be back in a minute,” and ran.
She came straight to see us. I was there, and we hugged—it wasn’t just a professional moment, it was human. We both had a little cry. I’ve never spoken about that moment before, but it meant the world to me. She’s actually in one of the birth photos, just before Amelia was wheeled off.
In fact, she’s in several of the pictures. There’s one photo that we call the “Lion King moment”—where Amelia is being lifted up in the theatre, and you can see the weight of it all on everyone’s faces. The doctors and nurses look absolutely petrified of the outcome. And then, there’s the next photo—where you can see the sheer relief in their expressions as Amelia lets out her very first cry. It was overwhelming. Raw. Real. And Magali was right there in both moments, holding space, holding hope, and holding us in the most human way possible.
That desire to help has always been part of who I am. At one point, I wanted to be a beauty therapist—still helping people, but in a more holistic way. Then, during my time working on a ship (which gave me a huge boost in confidence), I decided to pursue my dream of becoming a podiatrist. I achieved it, and I’m proud of that.
But like so many of us, the pandemic shifted everything.
Now, my dream has evolved again. My purpose is to help other parents—especially those with premature babies and those navigating life as neurodiverse families—not feel alone.
Because I know what it’s like to feel isolated. I know what it’s like to sit in the NICU, staring at monitors, hoping, waiting, aching. And I know how powerful it is when someone truly sees you in that moment and says, “You’re not alone.”
Today, I’m living my dream—not the one I envisioned as a child, but one that feels even more important. Through my blogs, books, and podcast, I’m creating a space where parents can find empathy, solidarity, and strength. Because when we’re connected, we are stronger.
Thank you for being part of this journey with me.
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You’re not alone—and you never have to be.
Explore more stories and support on my website:
thegoodthebadandurparentingjourney.family.blog
References & Mentions:
• NHS Neonatal Services: https://www.nhs.uk/conditions/pregnancy-and-baby/your-baby-in-special-care/
• Bliss Charity for Premature Babies: https://www.bliss.org.uk/
• Royal College of Nursing: https://www.rcn.org.uk/
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