Worthy of Saving

I was here, and then I was gone.

An entire month missing.

Don’t be alarmed. It’s not uncommon for me to lose all motivation during the winter and quietly quit everything for a while. And that’s exactly what I did.

Here’s what happened: I had constructed a picture in my mind of what life after my transplant would look like. After celebrating my two-year transplant anniversary in December, it became clear to me that the image I had painted was not going to come to fruition. That realization slowly deflated me. I lost motivation. And for a brief moment, I lost a little bit of hope.

It’s difficult for me to admit this, but maybe admitting it will help someone else. So I’ll set my pride aside and offer this confession: I thought my heart transplant would somehow make me stronger, faster, sharper, more inspiring—a more dynamic version of myself. For two years, I’ve pushed myself physically to gain strength, speed, and endurance—to no avail. I suspect age plays a role, along with a long list of medications and surgical side effects.

I’ve tried to broaden my understanding of the world through reading and learning, only to find that I now struggle with attention and memory. Again, I blame age and medication side effects. I’ve shared my story on social media and in front of audiences, yet I haven’t felt what I expected to feel in return.

At the end of the day, I am nothing more—and nothing less—than a middle-aged woman living in the American suburbs.

But that’s just it.

When I arrived at the hospital for my heart transplant, my surgeon’s objective was to save my middle-aged, suburban American life. He wasn’t attempting to turn me into a superhero. The goal wasn’t to make me bigger or better than I was before, but simply to extend the life I was already living.

That life was worthy of saving.

So why is it so difficult to accept that? Why do I still feel the need to justify my existence by being more than what I am, when “survivor” is already enough?

Perhaps it’s something ingrained in me—the quiet expectations of my upbringing, or messaging of a culture shaped by performance and visibility. We live in a world that celebrates dramatic comeback stories. Somewhere along the way, I absorbed the idea that survival alone is not a satisfying ending—that it must be accompanied by achievement or applause.

But beneath all of that noise, in a quieter and steadier place inside me, I know the truth: I am enough for now. Not because I’ve proven anything. Not because I’ve surpassed some imagined version of myself. But because I am here. Because this ordinary, middle-aged, suburban life was—and still is–worthy of being saved.

And maybe learning to believe that is the new goal.

Just so you know, I haven’t completely given up on my 5K goal. Not entirely. I’ve mastered something I call the “Kitchen 5K.” Most mornings, I put on my running shoes and jog in my kitchen—sometimes running small laps, sometimes just jogging place. It works up a sweat and gets my steps in.

Look, I’m doing what I can do for now. I’ll progress when and how I can.

. . .”Let us run with patience the race that is set before us,” the scriptures say. I’m learning to focus on what is set before me—what I have to work with and what I have to work on for now.