I once met and became close to a very special person named Pat Evans. She was a neonatal nurse that cared for preemie babies. Sadly, the reason I met her was because I went into labor prematurely with my second daughter. She was born a two-pound preemie at 26 weeks. Pat had an amazing gift - she loved all babies, no matter what. We were fortunate that Pat was working the night my daughter was born and, thankfully, was assigned as her primary nurse. Pat cared for my child when I could not.

Her commitment was above and beyond. She cradled my child, took pictures of her when I couldn't be there and watched her with caution and awareness that only one with her experience could. A two-year old at home kept me away from a full-time watch but as often as possible, I stood beside Pat, watching her every move, learning how to hold a two-pounder, how to bathe her, how to read monitors and study oxygen levels. Her responsibility was monumental and her knowledge - key to my baby's survival and I was thankful.

She called me one morning, Easter morning, to tell me that my daughter had reached up with her tiny hand and pulled her breathing tube out. The doctor decided to leave it out to see if the baby would breathe without the assistance of a respirator. "You should come to the hospital, your baby is breathing on her own..." My forty-five minute drive seemed endless. And when I had arrived, the tube had been reinserted, my baby was unable to sustain breathing without assistance. Pat held my hand, comforted me, and assured me that someday, one day - all the parts would come together. And she was right.

It was not long and my daughter, Renee - now 21 - was able to come home at just under five pounds. She struggled through multiple ear infections and the heart ache of asthma but she soon thrived and won her battle. Pat went on to care for other babies and last I heard she had relocated to a hospital in Arizona, of course working in a NICU (neonatal intensive care unit) where she patted countless other mom's hands and rocked intubated babies to sleep. She recognized the battle she waged and its level of import. She never shirked her duties or rested on laurels of success for little lives waited to be saved. Her cape was a lab coat and no kryptonite plagued her.

There is a place for heroes. In hospitals, on football fields, in the car ahead of you. Perhaps, at the desk next to yours. Maybe it's even your desk, the possibility is real. A hero is not limited to leaping tall buildings or racing bullets. Every day bullets are dodged or impossibilities conquered. Maybe today is your single-bound or locomotive-stopping day. It could happen - but only if you believe in yourself and recognize the power within.