My story begins even before I took my first breath. My mother was admitted to UMH Limerick in Ireland with dangerously high blood pressure while she was pregnant with me. Nurses carefully monitored her, keeping an eye on my heartbeat and movements. One of them noticed something unusual, something that didn’t sit right. She went to fetch another nurse named Betty, who, without knowing it at the time, would become my guardian angel. Betty quickly realized that my mother was not only in early labor but that I was in severe distress. Calmly, she reassured my mother with the words,
“Everything is fine.” Yet behind that calm voice was urgency. She immediately called for Dr. Walsh, who decided to perform an emergency C-section.
When I was born in December of 1989, weighing just 3 pounds and 3 ounces, the delivery room was met with shock. I had Exomphalos, also called Omphalocele—an extremely rare condition where some organs develop outside the body in a thin sac. In my case, both my liver and intestines were outside. At the time, ultrasound scans were not as routine as they are today, so no one was prepared for what awaited them. My arrival was a surprise in every sense of the word. The doctors told my parents that I would not survive. I was baptized immediately, as my family braced for the worst. But I was a fighter, a tiny warrior who refused to give up.
The very next day, I was transferred to a children’s hospital in Dublin. The nurses there nicknamed me “Bowsie” because I was full of mischief and only content when I was being cradled in someone’s arms. Betty later told me that when she would call to check in on me, the nurses often laughed, saying they had to complete their notes while holding me, because I simply refused to stay in my cot. After eight weeks in intensive care, I was finally stable enough to return to Limerick. Before my second birthday, I underwent surgery on my abdomen in Dublin, a procedure that required another hospital stay. When I was strong enough to leave, my family organized a special blessing in our local church, since I had never had a traditional christening. I wore a dress sewn by my godmother, and my uncle, a Salesian priest, performed the blessing. That milestone was not just a celebration of faith but a triumph of survival.
Despite the odds, I grew up with what most would consider a normal childhood. I could run, play, and live life much like any other child. The only difference was the long scar running down my stomach and the absence of a belly button. For me, it was simply a part of who I was. But to other children, it became something to mock. From the age of five until I left school at nineteen, I endured relentless bullying. I was called names like “inside-out girl,” “alien,” and “freak.” It was cruel and isolating. I told myself that graduating would bring peace, but in 2010, the bullying followed me online. Former classmates, even cousins, mocked me on social media, ridiculing my appearance and going so far as to tell me that the world would be better off if I ended my life. It was devastating. I withdrew from the things I loved and questioned the purpose of my existence.
The pain deepened when my grandfather—the man who raised me, my closest confidant—passed away. His death shattered me, and I fell into a dark depression. Grief weighed heavily, and soon after, one of my grandmothers suffered a stroke, leaving me even more overwhelmed. I cried out for help, but too often, my pleas were dismissed as “stupid” or “dramatic.” The isolation was unbearable. There were moments when I wanted everything to end, but I held on because of my goddaughter and my grandmothers. Their love anchored me.
Then, life shifted. In 2012, I married and welcomed my first child, a beautiful, healthy boy. Two years later, my daughter was born. Both pregnancies, though tinged with minor scar-related discomfort, went smoothly. I was cared for by an outstanding obstetrician—recommended by none other than Betty—who ensured my fragile stomach was safe. Motherhood gave me purpose. Yet even then, the ghosts of my past returned. In 2015, five years after the first wave of online abuse, others resurfaced to target me again. They hurled the same cruel words and even suggested my children would be better off without me. I was terrified, but this time, I chose strength. I reminded myself: if I could survive being born with Exomphalos, I could survive this, too.
Healing came slowly. I leaned on meditation to quiet my mind and poured my energy into raising awareness. Most importantly, I discovered community. Through a global support group, I finally connected with others who shared my condition. For the first time in my life, I no longer felt alone. Inspired, I founded the Irish Exomphalos/Omphalocele Support Group in 2015, creating a safe space for parents and survivors to share, ask questions, and lean on one another. Later, I established an awareness page to reach even more families. Advocacy gave me a sense of mission.
In 2021, I gave birth to my third child, another healthy boy. That year also marked the 30th anniversary of my closure surgery—a reminder of how far I had come. Today, I live with gratitude. I have scars, both visible and invisible, but I have also built resilience, purpose, and hope. And through it all, Betty—my guardian angel who first saved me before I even had a chance to live—has remained in my life.
Looking back, I see not just hardship but a journey of defiance against the odds. I see survival, motherhood, love, and the unshakable truth that even in the darkest moments, life can still bloom. My story is one of endurance, and I share it now to remind parents and survivors alike that a life filled with joy, love, and strength is possible.
