Two SickKids nurses, one Christmas Eve, and a 22-year-old secret revealed

On Christmas Eve, there’s a different kind of quiet in the Hospital for Sick Children’s (SickKids) Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU).

The unit is full, but the hallways glow softly, lights dimmed to comfort newborn eyes. Monitors hum their steady rhythm; tiny hats are tucked gently over even tinier heads. Nurses, who are experts at navigating crisis with compassion, soften the edges of fear for families who never expected to be here during the holidays.

Decorations twinkle throughout the hospital, but the real holiday magic that lives here is made of human presence. It’s a hand held, a parent comforted and guided through their first skin‑to‑skin cuddle, or a nurse murmuring soothing words to a little one in an incubator. These are the moments that stay with families long after they leave, often becoming the memories they tell and retell for the rest of their lives.

Twenty‑two years ago, in the hush of this same unit on Christmas Eve, a father stepped into the NICU alone. His wife was still recovering at another hospital after giving birth to premature twin daughters. Both babies had been transferred to SickKids for urgent care. 

He was exhausted, overwhelmed and worried. But he was met by a young Registered Nurse named Maya Yevel, whose calm steadiness made the unimaginable feel just a little more bearable. 

There wasn’t one defining moment that stayed with him. It was Maya’s presence, her tone, and the way she made the family feel seen and less alone when nothing felt certain. They carried that gratitude with them, and made a quiet but meaningful decision to name one of their daughters after the nurse who had helped them through one of the hardest nights of their lives. That little girl became Maia Franze. 

They never had the chance to tell Yevel. And she never knew. 

Life moved on in the way it often does. Yevel continued building her career in the NICU, caring for hundreds of babies and families over more than two decades. 

Meanwhile, baby Maia grew. From a young age, she felt drawn to caring for others. She liked working with children. She loved biology. Nursing felt like a natural path, and neonatology pulled her in. It was a choice that felt intuitive to her. 

After graduating, she accepted a position as a Registered Nurse in SickKids’ NICU. 

For weeks, neither woman knew they were walking the same halls. Yevel works nights, aside from the occasional day shift; Franze works days only.  

They passed like shadows on opposite schedules, missing each other entirely. The magic of their story lived quietly in the walls, waiting. It was as though the NICU itself was holding the secret until the moment was just right. 

“Everything came about during an ice‑breaker activity during my orientation where we had to share a fun fact about ourselves,” says Franze. 

Her fun fact was, of course, that she had been named after a nurse who cared for her in the NICU. The unit’s Clinical Orientation Support Nurse (COSN) paused. She knew had only ever been one “Maya” on the unit, even back then. Eventually, their COSN set up a time for the two to meet during a rare overlapping shift. 

“No one could believe it. It was so surreal. I never thought I’d actually meet her,” Franze says, recalling the moment she first hugged Yevel. It felt like meeting a character from a fairytale she had been told again and again about her beginnings. 

For Yevel, learning the truth was a powerful reminder that what can feel like an ordinary shift often carries extraordinary meaning. 

“It was such an honour. It’s unbelievable, really,” Yevel says, tears filling her eyes as she reflects on the moment she learned why Franze was named after her. “For us, it can seem like just a regular shift. But we touch lives. We have this power to influence someone’s life in such a positive way. It’s touching that they think of me even now.” 

For NICU Senior Clinical Manager Andrea Riekstins the story felt like poetic symmetry, and a reflection of the heart of neonatal care. 

“You make a lasting impression on a family,” says Riekstins. “And sometimes, decades later, that impact comes back through our doors.”

Over the years, the work inside the NICU has evolved. Advances in neonatology mean babies born as early as 22 weeks are now surviving, often requiring highly specialized, long‑term critical care. As complexity has increased, so too has the responsibility carried by nurses at the bedside.

“With that increased complexity comes the need to support nurses differently than we did years ago,” says Andrea. “So, we adjust our model to meet that.” 

Today, new graduates entering the NICU are supported through nearly a year‑long orientation combining mentorship, buddy shifts and ongoing clinical guidance.  

For Franze, that support has been essential as she steps into a role she once experienced from the other side of the incubator.

“I always have someone I can go  to,” she says. “I really feel like I’m making an impact, and especially at a time of year that is so important to my story and my family.”

This Christmas Eve will also be an unforgettable one for Yevel. 

“I’m working Christmas Eve this year,” she says, smiling as she looks over at Franze. “I’ll think of Maia. Probably every Christmas now, I’m going to think of her.”

Because this is what the NICU does, year after year. It holds families through their most difficult nights. It makes moments into stories that become part of who people grow up to be.

And this holiday season, surrounded by tiny sleepers and the hum of monitors, these two “Mayas” will continue the legacy of care that made SickKids home for both of them.