A later WHO analysis reported that immediate Kangaroo Mother Care was associated with an 18% reduction in suspected sepsis, a 36% reduction in sepsis-related deaths, and a 25% reduction in overall deaths among small and preterm babies.
These findings do not mean that every kind of cuddling produces the same medical outcomes, nor that volunteer holding is equivalent to Kangaroo Mother Care.
But they do reinforce a broader principle: newborn care is not only about machines, medication, and procedures.
Human connection matters too.
A Quiet Presence in a High-Tech World
There is something almost poetic about Whitlow's role.
The NICU represents some of the most sophisticated medicine available to vulnerable newborns. Tiny babies can be connected to equipment that measures their heart rate, oxygen levels, breathing, temperature, and other vital signs.
Doctors and nurses work constantly to keep them stable.
And then, among all that technology, there is an older man sitting quietly in a chair with a newborn in his arms.
The contrast is powerful.
Medicine keeps the baby alive.
But sometimes the human presence around that medical care helps make the experience feel less frightening and less lonely.
Whitlow himself has described his work as being about more than the babies. In comments reported by WTVR, he spoke about supporting the emotional and spiritual needs of families and staff as well, saying that these elements become connected within the NICU community.
That perspective may explain why his role has become so meaningful to him.
He is not simply holding babies.
He is participating in a community built around hope.
Eight Years of Showing Up
Perhaps the most remarkable part of Whitlow's story is not any single moment.
It is his consistency.
For approximately eight years, he has kept returning.
Week after week.
Month after month.
Year after year.
There is something powerful about that kind of commitment.
The babies change.
The nurses change.
The families change.
The medical challenges change.
But Whitlow keeps coming back.
According to People, he can hold as many as eight babies during a particularly busy visit.
Over eight years, that adds up to hundreds of newborns who have spent at least a little time in his arms.
Most of those children will eventually grow up without ever remembering him.
They will not remember the hospital monitors.
They will not remember the incubators.
They certainly will not remember the old man who held them when they were only a few pounds—or less.
But Whitlow remembers the significance of those moments.
And he leaves every baby with the same wish.
“Grow strong.”
Because, in his view, a good life strength is what they need to survive.
“Grow smart.”
Because he hopes they will have every opportunity to learn and flourish.
“Grow kind.”
Because, in his view, a good life is about more than survival or achievement.
It is about the person you become.
Why Those Six Words Matter
Whitlow has explained that the words reflect what he wants from people in general.
That makes his ritual much more than a sweet phrase for babies.
It is almost a personal philosophy.
Grow strong.
Strength does not necessarily mean physical power. It can mean resilience—the ability to endure difficult circumstances and continue moving forward.
Grow smart.
Intelligence can mean knowledge and curiosity, but it can also mean learning how to understand other people, how to solve problems, and how to navigate a complicated world.
Grow kind.
Perhaps this is the most important word of all.
A person can be strong and intelligent and still make the world worse.
Kindness gives those other qualities a purpose.
And Whitlow says these words to babies at the very beginning of their lives, often at a moment when they are too young even to understand language.
It does not matter.
The words are really for everyone else in the room, too.
For the exhausted nurse.
For the worried parent.
For the frightened family.
And perhaps for Whitlow himself.
A Lesson in Purpose
Retirement is often described as the beginning of a period when people finally have time for themselves.
But Whitlow's story offers another possibility.
Maybe retirement can also be a beginning—a chance to ask a different question:
What can I give?
After more than four decades working in local government, Whitlow could have reasonably chosen to step away from responsibility.
Instead, he found another kind of responsibility.
It does not come with a paycheck.
It does not come with a title.
It does not come with public recognition.
And yet he considers it the best job he has ever had.
That may be because purpose often comes from being useful to someone else.
Not necessarily in dramatic ways.
Sometimes purpose is simply showing up.
Sometimes it is sitting beside someone who is frightened.
Sometimes it is holding a baby whose parents cannot be there.
Sometimes it is giving an exhausted nurse one less thing to worry about.
Sometimes it is saying six words that express a lifetime's worth of hope.
The Bigger Message
Stories like Whitlow's are easy to describe as heartwarming—and they certainly are.
But there is a deeper lesson hidden inside them.