A Letter to My Children: The Day My Heart Stopped and Hope Took Over
Dear Gioia, dear Rome,
Daddy has a story to tell you.
Right now, as I write this, you are just one and four years old. But time moves fast. One day soon, you’ll start exploring the world with wide, curious eyes. You’ll try new things, make friends, maybe even download TikTok and Instagram. And because I’ve spent most of my life as a footballer, you’ll hear stories about me—some true, some half-true, and some that are just plain wrong.
You’ll hear my story from someone.
But before that happens, I want you to hear it from me.
Before anything else, though, I want to tell you how you got here. Because every day, I’m grateful you made it safely into this world.
Rome, you came first—so your story starts here.
I remember the moment like it was yesterday. Your mother was seven months pregnant. We were at home in Dortmund, and the midwife came over for a routine checkup. She was doing an ultrasound—something simple—until suddenly, her expression changed.
She said quietly, “It seems like your baby isn’t OK.”
We froze.
“What do you mean, not OK?”
“His heartbeat is too slow. We need to get to the hospital. Right now.”
Just like that, everything changed.
Our plan had always been to give birth in Düsseldorf—where we trusted the doctor, where we felt safe. But now, there was no time. The ambulance was going to Witten, the nearest hospital. I followed behind in the car, speeding through traffic, sirens wailing ahead of me, heart pounding in my chest.
It’s hard to describe that feeling.
There’s fear—and then there’s the fear of losing your child.
I was panicking. I could barely think. Every second felt like an hour. My hands were shaking, but I kept driving, whispering over and over again:
Please, please, please, let him be okay.
God, please.
At the hospital, everything moved at lightning speed.
A dozen medical staff were waiting as we rushed in. They surrounded your mother without hesitation. Then someone shouted words I’ll never forget:
“His heart is still beating!”
I nearly collapsed with relief. But the moment wasn’t over.
The doctor looked at us and said, “We need to deliver the baby. Now.”
There was a possibility you had an infection, and they couldn’t take any risks.
They prepared for an emergency C-section. All I could do was sit, wait, and pray—hoping beyond hope that you’d come out okay.
And then, Rome…
You arrived. Six weeks early.
I guess you just couldn’t wait to meet us.
And the moment I saw you, everything made sense. My life changed in an instant.
Nothing would ever be the same again.
But your arrival wasn’t the end of the journey—it was the start of a new test.
You were placed in the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU) so the doctors could monitor your recovery. We stayed there with you, day and night. Just watching, hoping, loving.
This all happened in June 2020, right in the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic. I was still playing for Borussia Dortmund, and I was due back in training. But hospital safety protocols were strict—they told me I had to choose:
Return to training, or stay with you. But not both.
Honestly? That wasn’t a hard choice.
I said, “This isn’t even a decision.”
I called the club and told them I wouldn’t return until I knew you were okay.
In the end, I never did go back.
Your mother and I spent three weeks in that hospital—eating, sleeping, and simply being near you. You were born on June 5, 2020, and by the time we left, it was July. My contract had expired. The season was over. I was officially a free agent.
I’m sure Dortmund weren’t thrilled, but they understood. They had to.
Because I’ll say it now, and I’ll say it forever:
I’m a father first. A footballer second.
And I’ll never apologize for that.
