Navigating Emotions as My COVID Baby Begins Kindergarten

shayla wilson
Aug 1
5 min read

COVID babies have entered the kindergarten chat, so I thought I'd share my journey as a parent navigating this.

We’re having a baby

When I close my eyes and take a deep breath, I can still feel the weight of those early days. Not the sweet newborn weight snuggled on my chest—though I remember that too—but the weight of fear, uncertainty, and a love so intense it made me ache.

My daughter wasn’t just a baby born during a pandemic. She was our sweet miracle IVF baby. After a series of appointments, injections, loss, and prayer, we finally saw those two pink lines. I was pregnant in June 2019. I was elated—and had no idea of what was about to play out before me.

Bringing a newborn home during a global pandemic isn’t something I ever imagined. Instead of a revolving door of visitors, family oohing and aahing over her tiny toes, we had FaceTime calls and socially distanced waves from the porch. I tried to savor those early days, but the fear and loneliness settled in deep. I didn’t realize how much I would miss the community that often surrounds new moms, my folks our people, and being a first-time mom, I didn’t know how deeply I would grieve the experience I thought we’d have.

We have COVID

And then, just four weeks after she was born, our baby tested positive for COVID.

I got the call driving back from the drive-through testing site, which also happened to be my job, an hour 1 away the place I spent the previous 7 years caring for other sick children. Now it was my turn, my time to get the bad news. In the parking lot of Target in the back seat I held her tighter than I thought possible, tears streaming down my face, praying she’d be okay. No one could tell us what COVID would do to a newborn. We were all still learning in real-time.

That day still lives within me. The panic. The guilt. The fear. The questions. For the next few weeks, I would witness the crushing helplessness of seeing her struggle to breathe, the long days and oh so sleepless nights of 102 plus temperatures that I couldn't get under control…alone. And yes—my husband also had COVID at the same time as our 4-week-old newborn... which meant I had two babies to take care of—except one was dramatically self-positioned in the fetal position on the couch asking for orange juice like he was on his deathbed, (come to discover he was). Let’s just say the man cold is undefeated.

We got through it, but the scars lingered.

We have challenges

The months that followed were filled with more challenges than celebrations. As she grew, we began to notice delays. Speech wasn’t coming. Her milestones were unfolding in slow motion. We were still isolated—therapy waitlists were impossibly long due to overwhelming demand. The outpatient healthcare system, already strained, now felt broken. I found myself begging for evaluations, navigating calls and paperwork while trying to keep my own anxiety at bay. I wasn’t just her mom—I became her advocate, her coordinator, her fierce protector. I am a social worker, this what I do.

And now, somehow, we’re here.

Kindergarten.

We’re going to Kindergarten

Kindergarten.

Just typing that word brings tears to my eyes. It feels like such a milestone— My COVID baby, my fighter, my miracle girl is trading in her toddler shoes for light-up sneakers and a backpack bigger than her torso. She has been going to daycare and even a pre-k program to support the developmental milestones, but not kindergarten. This. Hits. Different.

According to the CDC, more than 3.5 million babies were born between March 2020 and 2021. Many of our children will be stepping into brand-new elementary schools this fall for kindergarten, beginning an educational expedition that will last over a decade.

Kindergarten means entering a world I can’t fully prepare her for. A world where kids might not understand her speech delays. Where routines move fast and expectations are high. Where her sensory sensitivities might stand out. Where a teacher’s words can shape the way she sees herself—for better or worse.

And, to the kindergarten teachers—this is my heartfelt ask:

Please extend grace, opportunity, understanding, and allowance.

Please understand that some of these babies, like mine, were born into a worldly chaos of unknowns and raised in isolation. They missed playdates, preschool, and critical social moments. Their development may look different, not lesser, just different.

Please notice their efforts, not just their delays. Celebrate their progress, even if it’s slower. Speak kindly, even when correcting. Understand that behind every child is a parent who has carried unseen burdens, fought silent battles, and prayed for someone like you to see their child not just for where they are, but for who they are becoming.

As for me—I’m learning to let go, not too much. To trust. To believe that she will thrive, just like she always has, in her own time and in her own way. Telling myself I did what I knew and felt was best for her.

If there’s anything this journey has taught me, it’s that resilience is woven into her bones. My COVID baby is not just headed to kindergarten. She’s headed toward a future we fought hard for—and I couldn’t be prouder.

And to the parents standing at the threshold of kindergarten, wondering how did we get here?—I see you. I feel that ache too.

It’s wild, isn’t it? The days felt endless, but the years somehow disappeared. We blinked, and now our COVID babies are walking into classrooms with backpacks and big dreams. It’s okay to feel overwhelmed, emotional, or even a little unready. But hear this:

You have been preparing for this moment, every single day for the past five years.

You prepared through late-night snuggles and early-morning routines or lack of. Through bubble baths and sidewalk chalk. Drive-thru birthday parties, virtual therapy sessions, makeshift playdates, and all the creative ways you kept your child engaged when the world stood still. You built forts and baked snacks and answered a million and one curious questions, you sat patiently while on FaceTime calls with grandparents, bless their hearts, they tried. You adapted when plans changed and routines collapsed. You showed up with love, creativity, and presence—even on the days you were running on fumes.