The night before my life would change forever, I attended a high school production of Hello, Dolly. During one of the big company numbers, I noticed a girl with Down syndrome on stage. She was radiantly happy, soaking up every second under the spotlight, and I was instantly struck by her energy, commitment, and fiery smile. On the drive home with a friend after the show, I found myself talking about her performance, praising her personality and the director’s inclusion. I remember stepping out of my friend’s car with a smile, thinking, “I can’t wait until my kids are grown and I can get back on stage.” My friend chuckled, unaware that I was just a few months pregnant with my second child.
The next day began like any other Friday, though my energy was low thanks to the first trimester. I woke early to get ready for my weekly Bible study, where I was scheduled to lead worship. I carefully chose a new forest green top, loose black pants, open-toed shoes, and a camel-colored coat, paired with my grey handbag. My hair fell in waves, I had rust-colored lipstick on, and that day I wore contacts instead of glasses. Every detail of that morning—the clothes, the colors, the atmosphere—is permanently etched in my mind.
At Bible study, I cried almost the entire time. After singing, a kind woman approached me, offering to help watch my older son. With no family nearby, her offer was a lifeline, and I accepted immediately. Tears streamed from my eyes as I walked home, unable to explain why I was so emotional. I blamed pregnancy hormones at the time, but looking back, I realize it was a quiet premonition of the storm ahead.
That afternoon, my husband Braden was working from home, and our son was napping. The house was quiet and peaceful. I told Braden I’d take a nap, slipped under the cozy covers, and turned my phone ringer off. Moments later—though I couldn’t tell if it had been a minute or five—I bolted upright, seeing a call from my OB.
I answered immediately.
Me: “Hello?”
Caller: “Hi, is this Misty?”
Me: “Yes, it is.”
Caller: “Hi, this is your OB calling. I have the results of your genetic testing.”
Me: “Oh, yay!” I had been waiting weeks for this—the only reason I opted for genetic testing was to learn the baby’s gender.
Caller: “The results of X and Y tests came back normal, but you came up as high risk for…(awkward pause)…Trisomy 21…for Down syndrome.”
Me: “Oh my gosh! What do you mean? How high risk?”
Caller: “There is a 9/10 chance the fetus has Down syndrome.”
Me: “Oh my gosh!”
Caller: “Yes… I’m sorry.”
She rattled off numbers, resources, next steps. I interrupted:
Me: “Wait! Before you go—what is the baby? A boy or girl?”
Caller: “The fetus is a boy.”
CLICK.
I vaguely remember leaving my bedroom, legs like mush, collapsing on the carpeted stairs, phone dropping beside me. Braden rushed over.
Braden: “What is it? What happened?!”
Me: “They…think…they SAID…our baby BOY probably has Down syndrome! I can’t! I’m scared! WHYYYY?!”
He held me as I sobbed.
Braden: “We will do this. This is our baby, and we will love him no matter what.”
At that moment, I knew he was right. My mind couldn’t focus, my body felt numb, but my heart ached—deeply, rawly, terrified. How could this happen? What about my career, my two-year-old son, my life?
I spent the weekend in bed, crying, reaching out to family and friends, begging for prayer. Some showed up at our door—hugging me, watching my son, reminding me to care for myself. Hands lifted me through that weekend. Sunday night, I prayed the most desperate prayer of my life, asking God for strength for the meeting with the genetic counselor the next morning. I knew I could not face it alone.
The next day, Braden and I arrived at the hospital. As we stepped out of the car, I noticed a little girl holding her parents’ hands. She turned, smiling at us, and I realized she had Down syndrome. Tears filled my eyes—God had already shown up in that moment. We were not alone.
Inside, the genetic counselor was warm and human. We spent 30–40 minutes in her office, terrified of what she might say. By the end, I felt the first wave of relief since the news. She shared resources, like the Down Syndrome Diagnosis Network, and explained that siblings of children with Down syndrome often become kinder, more empathetic people. She listened, smiled, and humanized the experience. I felt God’s presence in that room, calm and reassuring.
From that day forward, life shifted. I cried still, mourned lost expectations, shared my journey online, and worked tirelessly to educate myself. Pregnancy became stressful with countless appointments during a pandemic, but I had direction. We chose not to confirm the 9/10 chance with an amniocentesis—I already knew our son had Down syndrome.
Naming him brought peace. Reading 2 Samuel 12:24-25, I discovered the name Jedidiah, “Beloved of God.” Our son’s name would be Jedidiah, because he already was beloved.
On August 1, 2020, Jedidiah Coy Snyder was born, 5 pounds 2 ounces, after a month of little growth and low amniotic fluid. A hurricane, a week in the NICU, countless tears of heartache and joy—finally, we brought him home to meet his big brother, Clay. Love at first sight. That night, I gazed into Jed’s wide-open eyes and felt an instant, unbreakable connection. He was everything and more. His life was rich with worth, value, and beauty. And I knew my life’s mission had changed—to celebrate him and shout his worth to the world.
Months later, I created a video for families facing a prenatal Down syndrome diagnosis. Inspired by You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown and the song “Happiness,” I rallied moms, fundraised, and made a video celebrating the pure joy our babies bring. This project grew into a platform, Instagram page, Facebook page, and blog—@happinessisdownsyndrome—where I share daily stories of hope. I pray that every parent who feels desperate sees our community and knows they are not alone.
Down syndrome is not the enemy. Isolation, prejudice, and outdated ideas are. People with Down syndrome have limitless potential, inherent worth, and beauty. Across the globe, they break barriers and inspire awe every day. Their lives are not to be feared but celebrated. Jedidiah taught me that truth, and I will spend my life sharing it.
