Champ was born on September 30, 2025 — the most perfect newborn we had ever seen. He was calm. Beautiful. Already so good. He latched instantly and slept well that first night. I remember having to wake myself up to feed him — but by then, he wasn’t very interested like he had been earlier.

The next day, I began hand-expressing and feeding him with a spoon because he still didn’t seem eager to eat. He wasn’t crying. He didn’t appear uncomfortable. But something wasn’t right.

By the following afternoon, he still hadn’t had a bowel movement. Nurses gently commented on how big his belly looked. Looking back at photos it was definitely distended. One diaper had something in it that looked like mucus. My nurse quietly took it to the doctor to be examined. She offered to let me get some rest and said she would take him to the nursery so their new NICU doctor could meet him.

I said okay. I didn’t think much of it at the time. Looking back, I believe she already knew something was wrong — she just didn’t want to alarm me.

I was woken from my nap by the NICU doctor explaining that Champ was now in the NICU and he needed to be transferred to Children’s Healthcare of Atlanta at Scottish Rite — by ambulance or possibly helicopter. Everything after that felt like both a blur and a vivid nightmare at the same time.

We had to arrive separately from Champ. We couldn’t ride with him. That alone was terrifying.

When we got there, they were already working on him — poking, prodding, trying to place lines. The baby that hardly cried was screaming. They couldn’t find a vein. They couldn’t draw enough blood. Watching him go through that was torture.

The very next day at just two days old, Champ underwent surgery for meconium ileus.

Those two hours of waiting were excruciating. Knowing they were cutting into our tiny newborn was almost impossible to comprehend. We prayed constantly. There are no words for what it feels like to kiss your newborn and watch a medical team wheel him away… to see the doors close behind him.

In that moment, we didn’t feel strong.

We felt scared.

We felt small.

And we felt completely dependent on God.

Over the next two weeks in the NICU, cystic fibrosis was mentioned a few times. They told us it was “routine” to check for it with meconium ileus cases and that results could take a while. If we’re honest, we were in denial.

Eventually, we left the NICU and brought our baby home to meet his big sister, believing the worst was behind us.

But shortly after we got home, Champ was officially diagnosed with cystic fibrosis.

We quickly learned what that really means — daily treatments, long clinic days, constant vigilance, and questions about his future.

From that moment on, we had a new normal.

And from that new normal, Champ Strong was born