January 2026 – Witness Marks

This is me Winning

According to Dictionary.com, a superstition is defined as:

a belief or notion, not based on reason or knowledge, in or of the ominous significance of a particular thing, circumstance, occurrence, proceeding, or the like;
a system or collection of such beliefs;
a custom or act based on such a belief.

I’ve always been superstitious. When I learned how to play solitaire as a tween, that superstition quickly found a home. I began playing the game the way others might use tarot cards: If I win this game, it means good luck. If I lose, my wish won’t come true.

Oh, don’t worry—I know from whom all blessings flow. My faith is firmly grounded and not easily shaken. But sometimes, in my humanness, I fall prey to my feelings and find myself in need of distraction. Maybe control. In some way, superstition offers me a little of both.

Recently, I’ve been thinking about the difference between emotions and feelings. The clearest way I can sum it up is this: emotions are physiological reactions to stimuli, while feelings are the thoughts we assign to those reactions based on our experiences.

Why is knowing the difference important? I don’t know. It probably isn’t. But for me, I wanted a better way to take control of my feelings—a better way than sitting down with a deck of cards and telling myself that if I win this game, everything will work out just fine.

If we understand that emotions are simply human reactions to the world around us, then we can reason that, given enough time, those emotions will pass. Feelings, on the other hand, are trickier. They get tangled up with our beliefs.

The other day, I learned something that triggered an emotion I immediately attached feelings to. Those feelings made me deeply uncomfortable. I found myself wrestling with censorious, unfriendly thoughts toward another person—and toward myself. It felt like carrying an unwelcome burden of hostility, competition, regret, and maybe even a little jealousy. When I searched for the root of those feelings, the emotion they were tied to, I landed on anger. And I had to ask myself: What am I angry about?

My husband answered that question for me. I wasn’t winning. And it wasn’t really about winning, not exactly. It was about fairness. Equality. Balance.

We aren’t all dished the same plate of struggle in this life, and that reality was making me angry. But it is reality. No amount of whining, crying, complaining, or angry lamentation will change it. So I took a deep breath and chose to move on. Once I identified the emotion behind the feelings, I could reason that there wasn’t truly a need to be angry at all.

Still, as a human, I’m entitled to my feelings. More than that—I think feelings matter. So I processed them the best way I could.

I prayed.

Then I pulled out my deck of cards and set up a game of solitaire.

If I win this game, everything will be just fine.

First game—bam—a win.

This is me winning.

I’ll Rise This Way

There are days when defeat doesn’t arrive with drama or fireworks. It doesn’t kick down the door. It just sort of… sits next to you. It eats your snacks. It asks if you’ve “really thought about this.” And before you know it, you’re staring at the ceiling, mentally replaying every decision you’ve made since 2009.

Defeat is sneaky like that.

It shows up when you’ve done most things right but still landed on your face. When you followed the plan, adjusted the plan, stayed positive about the plan—and the plan still failed you. At least that’s how it feels. It’s the kind of tired sleep doesn’t fix, the kind of unmotivated that exists even when you want to care, the kind of wondering whether everyone else got a secret elixir or code you somehow missed.

And let’s be honest: in those moments, resilience sounds a lot like toxic positivity. Resilience? Who’s she? I don’t know her.

Lately—ever since telling everyone that this year I’d like to run my first 5K since my heart broke four years ago—I’ve been feeling a total lack of motivation and, as a side effect, resilience. If fatigue and ennui were part of my training plan, I’d be absolutely crushing it right now.

When I’m feeling defeated, I don’t want a pep talk. I want a nap. And snacks. Or to dramatically announce, “I’m taking a break from life. Don’t contact me until further notice.”

But here’s the uncomfortable truth: resilience rarely looks like a triumphant comeback montage. It’s not a swelling soundtrack or a slow-motion jog toward victory. Don’t be fooled by all those videos of people triumphantly crossing marathon finish lines, hands raised high, sweat and tears streaking down their faces—though that is the picture of resilience I thought would be mine.

Most of the time, resilience looks painfully unremarkable.

It looks like getting up and doing the next small thing while still feeling awful.

It looks like doing the laundry one load at a time.

Or changing from pajamas into comfy sweats during the day for no other reason than to smell a little better.

It looks like saying, “I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’ll try again tomorrow,” and meaning it… kind of.

Resilience is strength that isn’t looking for applause. It doesn’t even require optimism—at least not right away, even if it sometimes masquerades as it. To be resilient, you don’t have to believe everything will work out. You just have to believe that stopping entirely isn’t the answer—at least not today.

And that’s the part people don’t talk about enough: you can carry disappointment with you like an awkward backpack and keep walking anyway. Strength doesn’t require enthusiasm. It just requires movement.

Slow, consistent movement.

It comes down to choices. In my experience, all of this is a choice. When you’re winning at life, everything feels important and shiny, like it’s meant for you. It’s easy then to choose happiness and optimism. It’s easy to find purpose, to feel like what you’re doing matters.

But when you’re defeated, you suddenly see what actually matters—what’s worth continuing, what can be let go, and which expectations were never yours to begin with. Some things become easier to release, while it becomes harder to find meaning in it all.

Yet for all the ways defeat humbles you, it also clarifies. It teaches you where your limits are—and, more importantly, where they aren’t.

And slowly, almost annoyingly slowly, something shifts.

You realize you didn’t quit.

You realize you’re still here.

You realize that even on your worst days, you’re capable of showing up in imperfect, human ways.

Dinner may come from a box or a fast-food drive-thru, but the family gets fed regardless.

That’s resilience.

Not the absence of struggle, but the refusal to let struggle be the final word.

Despite the fatigue, the lack of visible progress, the burning lungs and sluggish legs, I’m not letting go of my goal. I don’t need the confidence that I’ll win—or even run—the 5K in order to stay in the game. I may not make any dramatic leaps forward, but I’ll keep taking stubborn, slightly grumpy steps ahead.

And maybe that’s enough for now. Maybe resilience, for me, isn’t about proving anything or crossing a finish line with my hands in the air—though that dream is hard to relinquish. Maybe resilience is simply about choosing to show up again tomorrow, even if tomorrow looks a lot like today. I’m learning that I don’t need to feel strong to be strong—I just need to keep going. One step, one breath, one imperfect try at a time. And if that’s what rising looks like right now, then I’m willing to rise this way.

The Quickest Way to a Man’s Heart

So, it turns out the quickest way to a man’s heart is not through his stomach after all. It’s through his neck—specifically, the internal jugular vein. Sometimes the groin, wrist, or upper arm will do. Ask me how I know. Over the course of my lifetime, I’ve had this done about 25 times.

The first time was when I was twenty years old. I had been diagnosed with supraventricular tachycardia, and the doctor assured me he could fix it with a procedure called endocardial ablation. I was taken to the cardiac catheterization lab—the Cath lab—where they accessed my heart through the femoral artery in my groin. It was scary (they use only light sedation, not full anesthesia), uncomfortable (I had to lie flat with sandbags on my groin for hours to stop the bleeding), and deeply embarrassing (again, it was my groin). I’ve only had this done twice since. I do not recommend it—unless, of course, they’re trying to save your life. In that case, by all means, embrace your overpriced bikini shave administered by a nurse’s aide, likely male.

Over the years, they’ve also accessed my heart through my wrist (twice), my upper arm (truly awful), and even a tiny spot just below the xiphoid process of my sternum. But when it comes to heart transplants, the preferred route is through the neck, via the internal jugular vein. Post-transplant, this procedure—called a right heart catheterization—is used to monitor hemodynamics (the pressures within the heart) and to take biopsies of myocardial tissue to check for rejection. Since my transplant, I’ve had this done 19 times. No sedation—just a little lidocaine in the neck.

The University of Utah, where I receive my care, is a teaching hospital. Which means that at nearly every turn—every procedure, surgery, or appointment—there’s a student, resident, or fellow eager for a learning opportunity, and I am the willing (or sometimes unwilling) classroom. Over time, I’ve learned to advocate for myself. After a few botched attempts by fellows trying to access the tiny veins in my neck or upper arm, I started saying, “Attending only, please.” In other words, only the supervising physician—the one teaching the fellow—gets the honors. If I’m going to be awake and fully aware of every cut, pinch, push, pull, and squeeze, then I’d prefer the most experienced hands available. Thank you very much.

Then, one Sunday morning, I received a text from a leader in our church. We were hosting a regional conference, and a visiting church authority would be speaking. This authority, Hugo E. Martinez, and his wife, Nuria, were both retired physicians. He had played a key role in helping our son receive cardiovascular testing while serving a mission in Ghana, so he was already somewhat familiar with our situation. Since he was visiting our area, he wanted to check in with us.

After the meeting, we went to meet him. He was warm, kind, and genuinely interested in our family and my health. Then he offered a piece of advice: be patient with medical residents and fellows—let them learn from you.

I was caught off guard. How did he know I had been limiting who worked on me? It was probably just coincidence. Maybe divine inspiration. But from that day on, I loosened my grip a little on controlling who was allowed to practice their medical skills on me. And in doing so, I found myself feeling empowered in other, unexpected ways.

There is something uniquely healing—and even cathartic—about sharing your story and watching others learn from what you’ve been through.

Look, life is going to be hard. It just is. And if you’re going to experience the awful parts of living, why not take back some control by owning the narrative? Share your story. Share what you learned. Share how it shaped you. Share it with the people around you—or with the people who might benefit from hearing it. And there will be many.

I’ve had the opportunity to share my story more than a few times. I’ve even had the chance to teach others—yes, including doctors—through my experience. And I’ll say this: I feel stronger every single time I do.

That said, no student nurses may come at my veins to learn how to start IVs. I have to draw the line somewhere.

In the end, I’ve learned that the quickest way to a man’s heart isn’t a catheter or a scalpel—it’s vulnerability. It’s opening yourself up, telling the truth about what hurts, what healed, and what changed you along the way. When you share your own heart—carefully, honestly—you invite others to learn, to connect, and sometimes to heal right alongside you. And while I may still be selective about who gets access to my veins, my story is always open. After all, hearts were never meant to be guarded forever—they were meant to be shared.

The Gym is not Your Village

To be honest, not much running has been happening this week. I haven’t been feeling great. And around here, when mama doesn’t feel great, nobody feels great—meaning my not feeling great tends to ripple outward, creating a low hum of anxiety for everyone else. Still, I push on with my morning walks with friends. We’re experiencing an unusually mild winter, one that has gifted us many pleasant morning miles. I’m not complaining.

The other morning, our conversation turned to a big change coming to our neighborhood—one that has left most of us feeling disappointed. Maybe worried. At the very least, unsettled. It’s something some of us anticipated, yet still something we’re not happy about: a new development that will inevitably impact our community in ways that make us feel a loss of control.

When we built our home here twenty years ago, community was one of the most important factors in our decision. We were a young, growing family, searching for a safe, family-friendly place where our children could grow up feeling connected. We wanted a village. And a village is exactly what we found.

Over the years, our neighbors have walked alongside us through our daughter’s autism diagnosis, my brother’s sudden and tragic death, my sister’s stroke at thirty-four, my ARVC diagnosis and eventual heart transplant, thyroid cancer, and the loss of our parents—along with the countless mishaps and quiet struggles of everyday life. And we’ve done the same for them. We’ve cried together in seasons of grief. We’ve shown care through meals delivered during sickness, tragedy, or the arrival of a new baby. We’ve celebrated joy-filled milestones side by side. When I need a cup of sugar, a splash of milk, or a teaspoon of baking soda, I know exactly who to text.

That is community.
That is a village.

I don’t know who needs to hear this—though I suspect quite a few people do this time of year—but the gym is not your village. Yes, you read that right: the gym is not your village. I say this as someone who is very much pro-gym. I once had a Pilates studio in my basement where I taught group fitness classes. I speak—er, write—as someone who knows.

Years ago, after a devastating miscarriage, my husband gently suggested I find a new hobby—something to distract me, something that might help me move forward. I certified in Pilates and yoga and began teaching classes in my basement to women in my community. The classes grew. I added High Fitness. Eventually, I was teaching every day of the week. I was incredibly proud of what I’d built. Proud of my participants. Proud of what I believed was a community.

But when the proverbial crap hit the fan and my health forced me to shut down the studio, I found myself unexpectedly alone. It wasn’t the studio participants who showed up with meals, took me out to lunch when I needed encouragement, or sat quietly with me as I gave voice to my grief and fear. It was my neighbors, my family, and my long-rooted friends who did that.

The gym is wonderful for building strength, lifting mood, and connecting with like-minded people. It serves an important purpose. But true community is built through service. A village grows from the steady rhythm of giving and receiving—of showing up and being seen. If you want a village, you must be willing to be a villager: doing the work, offering effort, and investing in others. By and large, people at a gym are there for their own progress, focused on personal goals. They aren’t there for you—and that distinction matters.

When I walk with my friends and neighbors in the morning, I’m stepping into a different kind of rhythm—one shaped by presence rather than progress. The sidewalks and trails bear witness to our grievances, our long-winded pondering, and our unrestrained laughter. Those miles hold our stories. They hold us.

And even as our town changes—even as new developments threaten to reshape the place we love—I’m reminded that a village isn’t made of houses or roads or plans drawn on paper. It’s made of people who stay. People who show up. People who know your garage door code and which soda you like from the gas station.

No matter how the landscape shifts around us, in sickness and in health, this sisterhood, this village, is something I will always carry with me.

Perhaps This is the Real Work

If the phrase “new year, new you” grates on your nerves like nails on a chalkboard, then welcome to the club. I’ve said before that I’m not a fan of New Year’s resolutions. Instead, I endorse the practice of finding disciplines you actually enjoy, being intentional and consistent with them, and then watching how your life gradually changes for the better. That said, I’m not opposed to identifying areas of my life that could use some improvement.

For instance, I recently set out with the goal of running—er, completing—an organized 5K fun run. I know that in working toward this goal, I will inevitably bump up against setbacks—maybe many of them. At this stage of life, I don’t just expect setbacks; I plan for them. Contingencies are the name of the game. At this stage of life, if I didn’t accept the reality of setbacks and plan around them, I might never try anything at all.

I remember that early after my transplant, I came across an Instagram account belonging to a woman who had received a heart transplant due to ARVC just months before I did. Six months post-transplant, she was already running 10K races. I truly hoped that would be me. I genuinely tried. But despite my efforts, setbacks repeatedly thwarted my progress. For the most part, I’ve been okay with that. It’s all good. My story doesn’t have to look like anyone else’s—whether for better or worse.

Early into my health… crisis?… I often heard well-intended people use phrases like “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle” or “everything happens for a reason.” And I remember thinking, My God doesn’t give me hard things to handle. Life does that. And sometimes, things happen for no reason at all. Sometimes, things just happen. Period. There is one universal truth in life: life is often hard. That’s it. There’s no explaining it away or justifying it for someone else. How a person deals with the hard in their life is entirely their own and dictated by no one else.

But I’m not the kind of person who is content to stop there. On a good day, I’d describe myself as introspective, hopeful, thoughtful, and deliberate. On a bad day, I’m stubborn, a bit pessimistic, and prone to avoidance. Still, at my core, I’m someone who tries to find meaning in life’s inevitable hardships. It’s not enough for me to simply let life happen. Rather than allowing life to wash over me, I feel compelled to find purpose in each turbulent wave—to search for the silver lining in every gathering cloud.

Several years ago, while sitting in church, I remember hearing—whether literally or spiritually, I’ll never know—a call to ask in prayer where I needed to improve. And that’s exactly what I did. Right there, in that moment, I silently prayed to know what I needed to work on, what I needed to learn. The answer was simple and direct: patience and long-suffering. Alright, I thought, I can do that.

At the time, there was no way I could have known what journey lay ahead.

Over the years, you could say I’ve become quite skilled in patience and long-suffering. And when I feel impatience rising within me, I remind myself: I prayed for this.

Earlier today, while studying the first chapter of Genesis in preparation for a Sunday School lesson I’m teaching, verses 26 and 27 stopped me in my tracks. We are created in the image of God. And suddenly, an epiphany formed as a simple thought: Open your view to greater purpose. If we are created in the image of our God, doesn’t that mean our lives carry a purpose beyond mere existence? Of course, I already believed that. But hearing it framed this way struck me deeply in the moment.

Open your view to greater purpose. Stop allowing life to simply happen to you. Let every experience—the good and the bad—teach you, shape you, and grow you into something better. When hardship crashes over you like waves at high tide, draw in close to your Creator. Close enough that He can hear your whispered fears, your aching questions, and your humble protestations. Close enough, too, that He can hear your quiet songs of praise, your breathless thank-yous, and your soft sighs of relief.

And perhaps that is the real work—not reinventing ourselves with the turn of a calendar, but steadily turning to the Savior to refine us through each season we’re given. Growth doesn’t always look dramatic or impressive. Sometimes it looks like endurance. Sometimes it looks like patience learned the hard way. And sometimes, it looks like simply staying close enough to hear His voice in the middle of it all.