When we first learned we were expecting our second child, our hearts were full of anticipation and joy. My wife, Lynnette, and I were both working as speech‑language pathologists, covering the full range of our field from adult to pediatric care. We understood developmental milestones, medical complexities, and the miracle that is a healthy child. But nothing—professionally or personally—could have prepared us for the emotional and spiritual journey we were about to begin with our son, Ian.
Facing uncertainty with faith
Our first ultrasound was at Baylor Scott & White, the same place Ian would later be born. We walked in excited and nervous, but hopeful. During that appointment, something on the screen caught our attention. There was concern, yes—but also a strange sense of familiarity. Ian’s anatomy appeared different, and in a moment of almost ironic clarity, we realized God had been preparing us for this in ways we never expected. With our backgrounds working with medically complex children, we were uniquely equipped—professionally, emotionally, and spiritually—for what lay ahead. Still, when it’s your own child, no amount of preparation shields you from the fear of the unknown.
The prognosis was vague and frightening. We were told Ian might not be able to see, hear or breathe on his own. He might not survive outside the womb. The uncertainty was crushing. Our days became a blend of faith, fear, and fragile hope. So we prayed. We leaned on each other. And we chose to believe that, no matter the outcome, Ian’s life—however long or short—had purpose.
Seeing the child behind the chart
When Ian was born, we were surrounded by many of the same care teams we had worked alongside for years, only this time as parents, not providers. He arrived at Baylor Scott & White Medical Center and was immediately admitted to the NICU, where he spent the next week. By the grace of God and the expertise of extraordinary neonatologists, nurses, therapists, and specialists, Ian came home. His homecoming was a milestone—but only the beginning of a much longer journey.
From that day forward, Baylor Scott & White McLane Children’s Medical Center became an extension of our home. Ian has grown up within its walls, receiving some form of care or therapy nearly every week of his life. Physical therapy, occupational therapy, speech therapy, orthopedics, neurology, GI, pulmonology, audiology—you name it. McLane Children’s has been our place of consistency, hope, and progress.
Ian has had more specialist appointments than most adults will experience in a lifetime. He has undergone procedures, imaging, surgeries, evaluations, and countless consultations. There have been setbacks and scary days, but what has never wavered is the dedication and compassion of the teams here. They don’t just see a diagnosis—they see Ian. They celebrate every victory, no matter how small. They tailor his care to who he is and who he can become, not just what his medical chart might suggest.
Redefining “normal”
Ian is a light in every room. One of the happiest children you will ever meet, he has a smile that can turn an entire day around. His joy is infectious. Despite his medical complexities, he approaches the world with curiosity and delight. He cheers at his older brother’s baseball games, attends school in a blended classroom setting, and is learning, growing and thriving.
One of our greatest joys is seeing him attend inclusion classes at school. In addition to support in his specialized classroom, he participates with peers—laughing, learning, playing just like any other child. And truly, this would not be possible without the McLane Children’s team. The equipment that supports his mobility, the therapies that strengthen his communication, and the guidance that helped us advocate for his education plan—all of it has been made possible through the resources of this incredible hospital.
Ian has redefined what “normal” looks like for our family. Milestones may look different and timelines may be longer, but the joy is deeper, the perspective sharper, and the gratitude endless. Through Ian, we have learned to celebrate every inch forward, every skill gained, every connection made. He has helped us appreciate the beauty in things we once took for granted.
The power of accessible pediatric care
We also know that not every community has access to this level of care. If McLane Children’s wasn’t in our backyard, Ian likely wouldn’t be rolling into a classroom today. He wouldn’t be attending birthday parties. He wouldn’t be laughing at bedtime stories. His quality of life—his dignity, joy, and opportunities—are direct reflections of the investment this hospital has made in our son.
And while our professional experience helped in certain moments, nothing compares to the support we’ve received from this community of caregivers. We have leaned on doctors, nurses, therapists, social workers, and schedulers. We have cried in exam rooms and celebrated in hallways. We’ve come to know not just their names, but their hearts. McLane Children’s isn’t just a hospital. It is a place of healing, hope, and partnership.
Why giving matters
The impact of Children’s Miracle Network on this hospital cannot be overstated. CMN funding provides lifesaving equipment, essential programs, and services that directly benefit children like Ian. From therapy tools to diagnostic technology to child‑friendly spaces that ease the fear of hospitalization—these resources matter. They are the difference between surviving and thriving. They are the reason kids like Ian get to chase possibilities instead of limitations.
Today, when we look at Ian, we see not only how far he has come, but how far he can go. He is a child who has defied expectations and continues to do so every single day. He is a living testament to perseverance, faith, and world‑class pediatric care. And we are truly honored that he has been chosen to represent this hospital as the 2026 Children’s Miracle Network Champion.
We are forever grateful to Baylor Scott & White McLane Children’s Hospital and to every person who has walked this road with us. They gave our son a chance—not just at life, but at a meaningful, joy‑filled life.
And for that, there will never be words big enough to say thank you.
This story was contributed by Ian’s dad, Adam Torres.
