Fiauna

What I Couldn’t Say Out Loud

Sometimes I find myself going quiet. When a thought hits me, I usually share it immediately—with my husband, my sister, my kids, or a friend. I’m an open book. I wear my emotions on my face.

But every now and then, a thought comes that feels almost sacred, and instead of speaking, I grow quiet. Sometimes I worry that what I have to say will be too much for some people—offensive to others, misunderstood, disrespected, or simply falling on ears unwilling to listen.

In my worry over what other people think, I pull inward, try to make myself small, and stop sharing.

That happened to me the other day at church—a place where I should feel safe sharing something sacred. Instead, I swallowed hard against the lump rising in my throat as I felt a quiet prompting, a solemn recognition of a promise I made two years ago.

We were talking about the importance of seeking validation vertically instead of horizontally—language I knew Keelie, my 20-year-old daughter with autism, wouldn’t be able to decode on her own. As I tried to explain it to her, I applied the idea to myself and was suddenly pulled into a moment of remembrance.

Two years ago, on December 13, 2023, I felt an undeniable prompting to pray differently—to ask for a miracle. Until then, I hadn’t been able to bring myself to pray for the heart transplant I needed. It felt too big, too profound. But I couldn’t ignore the prompting. So after everyone left for work and Keelie was dropped off at school, alone in the quiet of my home, I prayed.

I had prayed before—for answers, for healing, for peace. I had prayed for God’s plan and His timing to prevail. I was always careful to pray for what I felt prompted to pray for. This time was no different—except for one thing.

Just before closing that humble invocation, I added a pledge—something I couldn’t say out loud.

In a rushed whisper, I said, “Father, if you give me a miracle, I will never stop sharing it.”

And He delivered.

The very next day, at 9:17 a.m., I received the call—the one you hope for but never quite believe will come.

“Fiauna, we have the perfect heart for you. Are you ready to come into the hospital?”

I am painfully aware that not everyone in circumstances like mine receives such an obvious miracle. I know many feel their prayers go unheard or unanswered. I’ve been there myself—searching for the hand of a loving God and feeling utterly alone. And it does not escape me that my prayer for a miracle came at the exact moment another family, in another part of the country, was praying too. But instead of receiving the gift of life, they received grief—and a guardian angel. My heart breaks at the thought.

That is precisely why remembering that pledge matters so deeply to me.

I will not let that family’s sacrifice be in vain. I will not let their heartbreak be forgotten. I will show those who want to see that God still keeps His promises—and that He still performs miracles.

So as I type these humble words, I know not many people may read them. But I also know this: no amount of horizontal validation—though momentarily fulfilling—will ever bring the peace that vertical validation provides. Whether one person reads this or five million do, I am not seeking approval from the masses.

I am keeping my promise.

I will never stop sharing my miracle.

Five Rules For Life

This week, I celebrate two bonus years. Two more years granted to me through the generosity and foresight, during a time of grief, of a donor family; the discipline and hard work of healthcare professionals; the love and support of family, friends, and the most wonderful husband; and by the sheer goodness of a loving God.

At my recent follow-up visit with my transplant team, one of my favorite doctors asked what words I had to offer after two years. I blurted out, without much thought, “Don’t take it for granted.” But then I really got to thinking: what do I really want to say after this last year? While 2025—year two after transplant—challenged me in ways I could not have foreseen, it also blessed me in ways I previously hoped and prayed for. Looking back on it all, what have I learned?

In an episode of Malcolm Gladwell’s podcast Revisionist History, he talked about well-known celebrities and personalities and their 12 rules for life—rules like “Always stand up straight,” “Always try a new dish at a restaurant,” or “Always pat a cat when you encounter one in the street.” It made me think: what would my rules for life be?

So here are my five rules for life (so far, at age 50, two years post–heart transplant):

1) Carry the weight of just this moment.
So many times in life, when I’ve been burdened by something hard, frustrating, or painful, I’ve made my own burden heavier by worrying about how I was going to manage things down the road. I’ve learned in the last few years to let go of looking too far ahead in times of difficulty and to give myself permission to take it one step at a time—carrying the weight of just this moment.

2) Always look for something to be grateful for.
Showing up with gratitude is the quickest way to happiness and a satisfying life. Long ago, I read the famous quote by Holocaust survivor Viktor Frankl: “Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.” In that instant, my perspective changed. We get to choose how we feel. I have found over the years that one of the quickest ways to shift how I feel is to choose gratitude. Look for things to be grateful for, and you will be happy.

3) Treat your body with respect. Consider your health a privilege.
Every day outside of the hospital, every day you wake up in your own bed, get to choose your own meals, and use the bathroom in privacy is a day to celebrate. So take care of your health; protect it. The internet and social media are full of opinions on the best way to do this, but in the end, nourishing food, enjoyable-yet-challenging movement, good rest, and evidence-based medicine are your best bets.

4) Move your body, breathe deeply, sweat a little every day.
Exercise is a privilege—one that was taken from me for more than two years. Even now, I miss running and the joy it once brought me; I hope and pray someday to participate in a 5K or 10K again. If you’re reading this, take one minute to breathe deeply, stand up—or sit down, if that’s a limitation you’re facing—and find some way to move your body before that ability is taken from you.

5) Find happiness in simple things and celebrate tiny miracles.
While setting goals and working toward achievement stretches us, helps us grow, and pushes us toward our true potential, it’s the little things we appreciate day to day that make life uplifting and bearable. Big accomplishments are life-enriching, for sure, but in times of test, simplicity is best.

Two years ago, my life was quite literally on the line when a donor, along with a skilled surgeon and medical team, gave me the gift of more time. These years since have taught me that life is not meant to be taken lightly. It is meant to be appreciated, protected, and lived with intention. My rules are in no way declarations of having figured it all out, but reminders I try to return to when I find myself comparing, rushing, or looking too far ahead. If these years have given me anything, it is a deeper reverence for each ordinary day and a profound awareness that every breath, every step, and every moment of love is a gift. So as I celebrate these bonus days, I do so with humility, gratitude, and a renewed commitment to live fully—carrying only today, choosing gratitude, honoring my body, moving when I can, and finding joy in the small, miraculous moments that make a life whole.

My Dad, A Fortune Cookie, and a New Beat

My stepdad was a man of simple abundance—and by abundance, I mean abundance. The man was a bit of a hoarder. He collected things. He loved tools, electronics, toys—anything anyone might possibly consider useful. If it existed, odds were it had a home somewhere in his collection.

He was also a connoisseur of little joys. He found pleasure in the simplest things. From him, I learned the satisfaction of an uncomplicated, unpretentious snack plate, assembled without fuss and shared with loved ones on a quiet Sunday evening at home.

He loved food—especially sharing it. He learned to cook at a young age and even taught cake-decorating classes for a time. He passed his collection (read: hoard) of cake pans along to me. Whenever I feel compelled to bake a cake shaped like, say, a rocking horse, I know I’ll find the perfect pan in his stash.

One of his favorite foods to share was Chinese food. Growing up, he’d hunt down the best Chinese restaurants, form friendships with the owners, and somehow negotiate his way into free meals for years. Because of him, Chinese food became a treasured, celebratory staple in our family.

After living a simple-yet-abundant life, my stepdad passed away in 2018. We would have celebrated his 86th birthday this year.

Just two days after my heart transplant, on December 17th, 2023—what would have been his 84th birthday—while I was hallucinating in the ICU, high as a kite on steroids and painkillers, a meal of Chinese food was delivered to my home. Only one fortune cookie came with the order. The message inside read: It’s time to dance to a new beat.

It was a simple message with layers of meaning. What was likely nothing more than a small act of kindness from someone (we still don’t know who) felt to our family like a message from the other side.

That little fortune cookie became, for us, a small miracle. What would have been a simple joy for my dad has become a quiet, yet profound, wonder for me and my family.

As naïve or trivial as it may sound, the ability to find solace and meaning in small joys is a sign of resilience—a healthy and powerful coping mechanism. In the midst of a challenge or crisis, recognizing simple joys and acknowledging small miracles can mean the difference between hope and healing—or grief, depression, and poor outcomes.

When we learn to find joy in simple things, and to see relevance and meaning in small miracles, we don’t diminish our lives—we enrich them. Finding satisfaction in simple abundance doesn’t make us foolish or weak; it shows we’re adaptable, strong, and resourceful.

In fifty years of living, I’ve learned to pivot, absolutely—but I’ve also learned to lean into simple joys and small miracles. Over time, I’ve realized that those big, theatrical scenes of miraculous events or perfect resolutions rarely come to fruition. In fact, when life feels heaviest, those grand solutions are often the least available. But what is available might be a cold can of Diet Coke, a funny movie, a brisk walk with friends to share gossip, or a fortune cookie delivered by a stranger with exactly the right message tucked inside.

Almost a year later, when I received a letter from my heart donor’s mother, she shared that Ella was a dancer. I love the thought that the steady rhythm of her dancer’s heart is now keeping me alive. What a blessing. What an absolute miracle. It’s time to dance to a new beat.

Looking for joy in simple things—finding connection and purpose in a simple-yet-abundant life—might not erase difficulty, but it will offer relief, belonging, and perspective. If I take one tool from my stepdad’s tool hoard, it’s this: the ability to find and savor the small, sustaining wonders quietly waiting all around us. After all, you find what you’re looking for.

I’ll Hold That For You

I’ve been pondering lately how most people love a victor’s tale. And, if not, how they then are quick to root for the underdog. If you think about it, more often than not, what catches the attention of most is a story of triumph: of challenges faced, odds defied, and struggles overcome.

It’s true—some people genuinely love a good tragedy. No judgment there. After all, many of the greatest works in literature are tragic at their core—think Romeo and Juliet or Macbeth. If tragedy didn’t strike a deep, strangely satisfying chord in us, Shakespeare’s works would never have endured with such popularity.

But what we really want is a neat and tidy ending. We crave stories that, while compelling, follow a predictable pattern and end tied up with a bow. We want an engaging exposition, a captivating rise in tension, an electrifying climax, and a clear, fulfilling resolution.

In short, we want to be entertained!

Also, we’re uncomfortable sitting in discomfort, even when—especially when—it’s not our own.

So, how then do we do we deal with those whose stories don’t follow a traditional narrative arc with that desirable rise and resolution? What do we do those whose stories refuse to tie up in a neat, tidy bow, that linger in the uneasy space between conflict and resolution? Not yet a triumphant tale of victory, but not quite a tragedy either. How do we support those still waiting for their happy ending?

I was told I was going to be listed for a heart transplant sometime around April 30th, 2022, and officially placed on the heart transplant waiting list on June 14th of that same year. I was initially listed as a status 6, the lowest active level of listing, meaning my wait could realistically last anywhere from one day to one year with the likelihood being closer to one year. I was ready to wait. And my expectation was to learn patience in the process.

But our expectations all too frequently fall short of reality.

All told, I waited for a total of 18 months—to the day—for my heart transplant miracle. And while I certainly learned a great deal a patience, I learned so much more. For starters, I learned that the transplant–what seemed like the very climax of my story–was really just the beginning of another chapter of my story. I also learned that for most of us this journey is an oddly lonely adventure, one stitched together with dramatic highs and lows. Lab results swing like a pendulum, emotions follow close behind, and we find ourselves oscillating between the cold suspense of waiting for test results and the rush of relief when an appointment brings good news. There are heart-pounding moments in the cath lab, yes, but also long stretches of quiet, slow page turning in waiting-room chairs.

But there is rarely a truly satisfying resolution. This story goes on and on—not in the grand, sweeping way of an epic, but simply as an overly long narrative.

I was talking with a new friend, Alison at Bonus Days magazine , someone writing chapters in her own epic journey, and she recently said something to me that really resonated. We were commiserating about the ups and downs of living life post heart transplant and I apologized for unloading a few frustrations when she said, “That’s okay. I’ll hold that for you.”

I’ll hold that for you. What a lovely sentiment.

What I felt in that moment was validation. She took a seat next to me in the waiting room and agreed to turn the next page of this overly long, not-all-that-epic tale I’m writing. She’s agreed to stand by this unlikely heroine while I’m living my main-character moment.

In this space, where not every book is written with a victorious conclusion or a tragic-yet-inspiring denouement, perhaps the part of the story that matters most is not the thrilling accounts of victory or the dramatic scenes of defeat, but the subtle, life-changing character development that takes place between the lines.

A Story For Christmas

n the very cold, very brutal Pennsylvania winter of 1983, my parents found themselves looking for a new place for our little family to live.

My stepdad had been working as a farm hand, repairing farm and milking equipment for an old couple that owned a dairy in the tiny town of Shippenville. As part of his pay, we were allowed to live in a small, nearly dilapidated old house with a sagging roof and rotting porch that was next to the barnyard on their property. As awful as the house sounds, it was charming to me. The surrounding countryside was nothing short of Idyllic in my childhood memory, with horses and cattle grazing in bucolic fields. My older sister and I helped out on the farm by assisting with the milking every morning and afternoon, tending to the chickens and turkeys and pulling weeds in the vegetable garden. We played for hours in the barn, jumping from the haylofts and playing hide-and-seek. We loved it there as children. We were sad to be leaving.

Unfortunately, earlier that fall, after a gloriously warm summer, we were awakened in the middle of the night by the bright glow of fire outside. The three-story barn was in flames—fully engulfed. Despite the best efforts of the local fire department, the barn burned to the ground. The farmer had just finished hauling in all the hay and oats from the field. Despite warnings from my stepdad that the hay was wet and in the warmth should not be stored in the barn, the farmer loaded it into the barn anyway. Large fans ran on the crop day and night to keep it dry and to keep mold at bay. And it had been an electrical spark from one of the fans that ignited the fire that burned the barn and everything in it.

The crop of hay and oats, gone.

Left without a barn, the tools and crops it housed and the milking equipment adjacent to it, the old farmer had no way of making money. He was forced to sell the farm and land. Including the little house we lived in.

Finding housing in a crunch in such a rural community took great providence, and by December of that year, my parents felt providence was certainly not smiling on them. I am sure desperate prayers were said.

Finally, on the day before Christmas Eve that year, they found an apartment for rent in the neighboring town of Seneca. The apartment was on the second floor above a small factory that made cemetery vaults—not exactly home-sweet-home. But it was good enough for us, for a time.

The next hurdle that needed jumping was moving our family and all our belongings on the night before Christmas Eve. We had no family near us as western Pennsylvania was not our native home. My mom had moved my sister and I from Utah to Pennsylvania after her divorce 5 years earlier. And after she married our step-dad, we had basically lived like nomads, moving wherever there was work. While we had a church community, our congregation was small and geographically spread all over the area. We were poor, and nearly alone. And we only had one little car to our name. There was no U-haul rental nearby. We had access to neither truck, nor trailer.

To top it off, a storm had blown in. That area was prone to lake effect snow and brutal Canadian winds. The wind chill on that night was 60 below zero.

It sure didn’t feel like Christmas time. And I remember being disappointed—worried even. We had no Christmas tree, no decorations, no tinsel, no gifts, and no angel on top of the tree to help us remember Christ. I feared there really would be no Christmas.

We spent the majority of that day boxing up our things, taking apart furniture, basically working and moving and moving and working and only pausing now and then to ponder how we were going to get everything to our new place with only our little car to take it all.

I’m not sure how this happened—being a child at the time, most things just seemed to miraculously come to pass. Now, through the lens of adulthood, I recognize my parents must have prayed and put out a call for help—and then prayed some more. But somehow, a decent number of farmers from the surrounding community, began pulling up unceremoniously in front of our little old farmhouse. They brought their trucks, trailers and hay wagons and, in the bitter cold of that night, loaded up our belongings and carried them to our tiny apartment in the neighboring town more than a 30 minute drive away.

But they didn’t stop there. Despite the ice and cold, they then unloaded all the boxes and furnishings and carefully carried them up the long, narrow flight of stairs and placed them in our new home, before returning to their own homes and own families to finish their many chores and prepare for their Christmas celebrations.

And then, just to make the holiday a little more Christmas-like, someone, one of those blessed farmers, returned to our apartment with a Christmas tree. I still remember that tree. To me, with the recollection of a child, it was tall and fat, and sitting on the very top was the most beautiful angel smiling down on us, reminding me of heaven and the true meaning of Christmas. That tree and the angel on top magically drown out those feelings of worry and disappointment I had had earlier. The memory lasts to this day.

Even though Christmas two years ago—the year of my heart transplant—was truly miraculous for our family, filled with more service than we could ever hope to repay and forever sacred to us, the Christmas we spent in Seneca, Pennsylvania will always stand out. That was the year I learned that the greatest gifts are those that remind us what truly matters: hope, kindness, and the light of Christ we carry within.

In the words of Jeffery R. Holland, “Not all angels are from the other side of the veil. Some of them, we walk with and talk with—here, now, every day. … Indeed, Heaven never seems closer than when we see the love of God manifested in the kindness and devotion of people so good and so pure that angelic is the only word that comes to mind.”

May we each, this Christmas, be that angel for someone else. May we follow a prompting, answer a call, have the faith to say yes, and serve each other as Christ serves us.

That Which Does Not Kill Me

I recently learned that the very thing that drives so many people where I live crazy is also the secret behind our spectacular sunsets. It turns out that the dust, the high altitude, and the bone-dry air—the trio that makes daily life feel like a battle with the elements—are the same ingredients that paint our skies in colors that look almost unreal.

For years I’ve grumbled about the dryness that clogs my nose at night and leaves my eyes feeling like sandpaper. And the dust—don’t even get me started. The slightest breath of wind can fling enough grit into the air to make you wonder if we’re all going to die of black lung. But then evening comes, and suddenly all that irritation feels like the price of admission. Because, wow. Our sunsets don’t just appear; they perform. Bold and fiery—light and color spilling across the sky and over the mountains in a way that can’t be captured in words.

What’s really happening is a little atmospheric artistry. As the sun sets, its light comes through the sky at a lower angle, scattering the shorter wavelengths—the blues and violets—out of sight. The dust particles in the air ramp up the drama, catching and amplifying the remaining reds and oranges. Meanwhile, dry air and high elevation keep those colors pure and intense. The result is a sky that looks like it was painted on purpose—because, in a way, it was.

It’s easy for me to overlook the spectacular shows that play out in the western sky each evening—to just close the blinds and ignore them. Instead, return to rubbing my irritated eyes and smoothing lotion over the dry skin on my knuckles, grumbling about this place and its cold, arid weather. One day, I swear, it’ll be the death of me.

But take me out of this dry, cold, dusty place and what would I notice? What would I learn? Would I go blind to the beautiful trees and grow tired of the moist, damp air somewhere else? Probably.

Funny how quickly we forget to appreciate the things that come to us without any effort. A sunset we barely look up to notice. A body that keeps us going day after day. Hot water we assume will always be there. Even a simple smile from a stranger. Meanwhile, somewhere in the world, someone is wishing for exactly one of those things we take for granted.

My son served a mission in Ghana, and for two years we were lucky enough to video chat with him every Monday morning. He sent home plenty of emails too—photos filled with snakes, chickens, goats, and the everyday chaos of his surroundings. But what stood out most were the smiles. Not just the smiles of the people of Ghana—people who live without so many of the comforts we take for granted—but the smile on our son’s face as well.

Why? Because of contrast. Because there’s benefit to be found in opposition. The things that challenge us, stretch us, or push us outside our comfort zone don’t just test us—they strengthen us. Opposition has a way of reshaping us.

You’re familiar with the expression, That which does not kill me, makes me stronger.

But here’s the thing: you get to choose. You get to choose what exactly that which does not kill actually does to you or for you.

That which does not kill me grants me new perspective.

That which does not kill me teaches me a lesson.

That which does not kill me makes me more grateful.

That which does not kill me gives me purpose.

That which does not kill me a writes for me a better life story.

The other day I was watching a clip from Dead Poets Society—the scene where John Keating, the teacher, is explaining the purpose of poetry to his students. He says: “We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race, and the human race is filled with passion. Medicine, law, business, engineering—these are all noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love—these are what we stay alive for.”

I would add one more thing to John Keating’s list of reasons to be alive: the sheer richness of learning. The way experiences in life increase our understanding and expand not just our minds but also our lives—one might call it poetic.

Life’s experiences—the good and the painful, the easy and the difficult—give it depth, beauty, and meaning. Sometimes, it’s through the hard times that our purpose quietly unfolds. For this, I am profoundly grateful: for the light and the shadow, the ease and the struggle, each one an opportunity to grow.

Too many of our days slip by while we’re busy thinking about all the wrong things—dwelling on stress instead of gratitude, worry instead of joy, noise instead of love and learning. And I get it, it isn’t easy. With so many responsibilities, it’s hard to stay positive, to find that good perspective. But even in the busiest times, we still get to choose where our thoughts wander in the quiet moments.

So where will we focus? On the dry, dusty air scratching at our patience? Or on the brilliant sky at sunset, beautifully painted just for us?

Pulling the Goalie

Recently, my husband and I were invited on a weekend trip to hike with friends in Arches National Park. Oh, how I had been looking forward to it! I love hiking almost as much as I love running—that toxic lover of mine. And to do it surrounded by my husband and friends felt like such a gift. We even managed to snag coveted permits for the Fiery Furnace, a maze of sandstone canyons with no marked trails.

Aaron and I made the four-hour drive to Moab almost giddy, ready for a much-needed getaway and some time outdoors before the holidays. We arrived as night fell, greeted our friends with enthusiasm and began making preparations for the next day. We were buzzing with excitement.

After a not particularly restful night, we woke early, divided into carpool groups and headed to the park. We wandered through the Fiery Furnace for hours, climbing over boulders and squeezing into narrow slot canyons, before I began to slow down. Even with peanut butter and honey Uncrustables and Reese’s peanut butter cups fueling me, my energy started to fade. My quads burned in a way that didn’t feel normal. I was more tired than usual and so, so thirsty.

Still, the conversation drifted toward the next hike and tomorrow’s plans. Which arch should we explore next? Who wants to see Delicate Arch?
Me, my heart shouted. I do!
But my mind countered with reason. I needed rest.

That night, as we gathered in the Airbnb swapping stories and playing games, a brutal migraine struck. The nausea, the pounding pain—it all hit at once. Ugh. Why now? By the time Aaron and I headed to bed, I knew I wouldn’t be able to join the group for their hikes the next day. Even though I understood it was the right choice for my body, the sadness settled in deep.

The next morning, Aaron and I made an early retreat and headed home. As we made the four-hour drive we listened to Malcolm Gladwell’s Revisionist History podcast where he talked about hockey. I don’t know anything about hockey. I don’t even like hockey; I’m in no way particularly interested in hockey. But what they were talking about caught my attention. Pulling the goalie. I’ll try explaining.

In hockey, when a team is down late in the game, the losing coach might pull his goalie and substitute them with an extra attacker, so instead of having a full offensive team and a goalie, the coach now has six offensive players and no one guarding the net. It’s a risky move that, while making it easier for the other team to score, also increases the losing team’s chances of scoring a goal and tying the game. The coach is making a calculated risk. Pulling the goalie too early will undoubtedly upset the fans in the short term–possibly in the long term if things don’t go well. But if things play out the way the coach would like, well, then who’s the hero?

I’m the type of person who suffers from Fear of Missing Out (FOMO). When people gather, I want to be there. I want to share in the laugher, get in on the inside jokes, make all the memories. You see, as a child, I spent most of my time with just my sister as my companion and friend. Due to divorce, job changes, moving, and general upheaval, we found ourselves separated from family and frequently changing schools. While teaching me how to adapt and quickly make new friends, I also took on a fear of being left behind.

For three years—while I waited for a heart transplant and later recovered—I was, out of necessity, left out of get-togethers and girls’ trips. I watched friends and family travel and enjoy activities that felt so exciting, yet out of reach for me. From home, it all felt distant, and I often felt lonely and left behind. Even now, during our walks, my friends sometimes reminisce about jokes and stories from the trips they took while I was unable to leave the area. It’s no one’s fault, but hearing those memories still hurts in a quiet, complicated way. Since then, I’ve fought hard—both mentally and physically—to rejoin the world: joining groups, getting active again, going on walks, hikes, and weekends away.

Until I have to pull the goalie.

Another way to explain this—drawing on an example Malcolm Gladwell uses, without getting political—is through America’s gun laws. In many states, there is a legal principle called “Duty to Retreat,” which requires a person under attack to retreat safely, when possible, before resorting to deadly force in self-defense.

It feels counterintuitive, right? Your property, your safety, your family may be at risk—and you’re expected to back away? To rely on retreat as your defense? Yet research shows this is actually safer. In states where “Stand Your Ground” laws have replaced the Duty to Retreat principle, homicide rates have increased, according to Gladwell’s podcast.

I cried when the migraine hit. I cried again when I realized my health wouldn’t let me join the group on another hike. More than anything, I wanted to stand my ground, take some pain medicine, and be right there with everyone in the national park the next day. But logic was the rule of the day. I needed to take the calculated risk of leaving–choosing my health and well-being over my social standing. I might miss the jokes, the memories, and maybe next time even the invitation. But if I stayed, the risk could be far greater.

After my transplant, I had a lot of expectations for myself–most of them centered on participating again. I wanted to run again, to race, to take classes and teach classes again, to join every activity that crossed my path. If people were doing something, I wanted to be right there with them. But life never unfolds the way we picture it. It unfolds the way it will. And so we adapt–something I’ve become very good at. Sometimes the wiser choice is that quiet, calculated retreat. Sometimes we have to pull the goalie. Stepping back isn’t failure. Sometimes it’s survival.

In the end, I’ll be better for having made the call. My friends will be there on Monday with another invitation–I know they will. Hopefully I’ll be well enough to join them. And if not, I have faith that the people who love me will always hold space for me, just as I hold space for them.

The Secret Language of Worry

I’ve heard it said that honesty is the first casualty of illness. I’d argue that honesty is the first casualty in any struggle. I first learned this when I took my then fourteen-month-old daughter in for a developmental evaluation, ordered by her pediatrician after we first noticed her having seizures.

After watching her “play” for nearly an hour, a speech therapist and a registered nurse brought me their assessment: moderate to severe global delays. With a cry trapped in my throat, I asked, “Will she catch up?” The two women looked at each other, glanced at my daughter, then at the floor—never at me—and said, “We’ve seen miracles.”

Was it a lie? Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know. But I do know it wasn’t complete honesty.

This was my first exposure to the secret language of worry. Since that time, I’ve become fluent in this unique dialect.

It begins with the eyes. They look down and to the right, or over your left shoulder. The face may turn toward you, but the eyes wander elsewhere. There may be a smile, the conversation might seem jovial, but the eyes are elsewhere. Even when truth is spoken, the eyes often drift away.

You will try to gain eye contact, and you might succeed momentarily, but then your attention is drawn to the mouth. Around the lips is a tightness—a subtle stiffness. Perhaps the laugh is forced, the smile lingers too long. In some settings, masks conceal this nuance, but you’ll notice the sound in the throat, the clearing of vocal cords. Even a brief pause before answering can be a tell in the language of worry. What is this person really trying to tell me?

As you become fluent, you notice the subtleties of speaking this language. You learn its origins. Suddenly, you avoid eye contact when your spouse asks if you’re feeling okay. You find something on the floor to study when a friend asks about lab results. Your voice weakens, and your throat clears when a son or daughter asks about a future date. Will you be well enough then? Who even knows?

The secret language of worry exists as a shield, both for the speaker and the listener. We live in a world overflowing with information—sometimes empowering, sometimes overwhelming. The truth can hurt. We carefully release it, bit by bit, gauging the reaction of those we love. Can they hold this worry with us?

In a few weeks, I will return to the hospital for my two-year heart transplant follow-up. They will run labs to monitor my organs—especially my struggling kidneys. They’ll perform a chest X-ray, EKG, echocardiogram, right heart catheterization, myocardium biopsy, and even a left heart catheterization with angiogram to monitor cardiac allograft vasculopathy (I just wanted to flex some medical jargon). As the date approaches, I find myself slipping into the secret language, explaining and justifying my concern repeatedly.

Oh, how I wish I could replace this language with the foreign tongue of celebratory optimism. I rehearse affirmations and speeches of positivity in my mind. But over the years, the language of worry has become ingrained, and it pulls me in too easily. Gratitude helps. Prayer helps. Patience helps. Until then, I practice them all.

If you catch me slipping into this secret language, try to relate. Empty platitudes have no translation in the language of worry; they ring hollow to those fluent in this tongue. Just listen. Listening helps.

In the end, we all speak the language of worry in our own way—it is, after all, a universal language.

The Toxic Ex-Boyfriend

I have this toxic ex-boyfriend, and he haunts me. In fact, I run into him almost every day. It’s becoming problematic.

We were first introduced in elementary school. I hated him then. I couldn’t understand the kids who liked him—mainly the boys in my class. He was always chosen for all the teams, and all the boys loved to play with him at recess. I personally never understood the attraction.

In junior high, he started drawing the attention of some of the girls. Not me, however. I tried steering clear of him, but no matter how hard I tried, it seemed we were always partnered up in gym class. It was torture.

In high school, my sister started hanging out with him a lot. She and her friends spent quite a few summer mornings and Saturdays with him. Their time together looked so easy—so fun and refreshing. Though I didn’t understand at first, you could say I was intrigued; maybe there was something there. Maybe if I gave him a try, I’d understand the appeal. And so I began a flirtation, if you will. Sometimes I’d join my sister and her friends when they’d hang out with him on a Saturday, hoping maybe there’d be a spark between us. He was kind of popular, and I wanted to like him and really wanted him to like me.

Let me tell you, in the beginning it did not go over well. I guess you could say our chemistry was lacking. Yet time and time again, we’d continue to ask each other out—I’d chase him, he’d chase me. Around and around we’d go. This went on for years, until one day it all clicked, sometime after the birth of my first child.

Most weekdays I’d set aside at least a little time for just the two of us, usually in the morning after my husband left for work. I’d put my son down for a nap and sneak off to spend time with him. But there were other times when I’d bring my son along, figuring that the early introduction was somehow good for him. Our relationship was easy and flourished then. Those mornings were so fun; sometimes I’d add an afternoon. With just one young child and so much free time, I put a lot of focus on him, and our relationship was strong.

But with the birth of each additional child, our dates became more difficult. I couldn’t just put a child down for a nap or bring one kid along to meet up with him. Suddenly, I’m juggling schedules. I’ve got preschool and soccer carpools. I’ve got toddler meltdowns and orthodontist appointments to work around. Timing things got harder and harder. Sneaking away to find time with him became more difficult. Our time together became more precious, so when I did find time, I wanted to really make it worthwhile. I hung on longer, or more intensely—anything to make the time more meaningful.

Eventually, I found ways to add dates to the weekends. I might sneak away for a Saturday morning with him. And that’s when things became torrid. That’s when my friends found out.

Once my friends got involved, we began planning weekend getaways. Aaron managed the kids while I went away with my friends and met up with him. I still feel guilty admitting that those were good times. I felt wild and alive. Adventurous. I was another person away with him and my friends. We ran free, and we laughed until our breath caught in our throats and our heads throbbed. And at the end of the trip, we almost felt hung over from the experience. But there was a price to pay.

This went on for more than twenty years. Over two decades of our love affair began taking a toll on me. And Aaron began noticing.

I began feeling tired. A lot. But this boyfriend demanded my time. And, oh, how I wanted to spend that time with him. I felt young with him. He validated me in a way nothing else did. But eventually, he broke my heart—completely destroyed it.

Wouldn’t you know it, as soon as my health began to fail, he left me high and dry. There was a part of me that thought I could hold on to him until I was an old lady, that I’d go to the grave with him by my side. At least I’d be able to tell my grandkids about my love affair, and they’d blush and whisper about it to their friends, secretly proud of their grandma.

Nevertheless, when my health went south, I came to peace with ending our relationship. I’m a happily married woman of a certain age, I figured I didn’t need him anymore. Believe me, I mourned the loss—I grieved, for sure. I felt broken inside. We had been together for so long, he had become a part of my identity. But I did blame him—his toxic nature. And there was a piece of me glad to be rid of him. I put that relationship firmly in the past.

But then my heart transplant surgeon brought him up, named him by name. Said he’d like to see me get back together with him. Perplexed, I turned to my husband, who sat beside me. He nodded his head in agreement. “I think you should try again.”

And so, after completing thirty-six sessions of cardiac rehab, I laced up my running shoes and tried again.

With a new, young heart and with ARVC in the rearview mirror, I jumped on the treadmill and began cranking up the speed. I started with just a few awkward, toddler-like steps for only thirty seconds at a time, eventually working up to running a full mile. My stride was clumsy, my cadence slow. But I did it.

Did I love it? No. In fact, I’d say we’re back where we started, with me watching all the runners around me making it look so fun and so easy, making me wish I liked it. Just like those days in elementary school, those boys at recess who ran with so much freedom and ease—at least now I know the feeling. My sister and her friends in high school who made their Saturday morning hill runs seem fun—now I understand the appeal.

I know I’ll try and try again. Some runs will be good, and other runs will be horrible. I might chase him; he might chase me. We might go around and around like this for a while. I don’t know if my love affair with running will ever be rekindled. But I hope one day to tell my grandchildren about my love affair with running and make them proud of their strong, resilient grandmother.

He Swept My Floor

My son is currently facing one of those big life choices: which path to take after college. He’s pre-med, but as we all know, while many are called, few are chosen. Not everyone who intends to go to medical school will actually find themselves on that journey. He’s also considering applying to a PA (physician assistant) program. Whatever path he chooses, his goal is the same: to work with patients in healthcare. And he’s diligently preparing himself now, no matter what the future holds.

Recently, someone close to him said, “We’ve decided you need to go to medical school because one day you’ll regret not going all the way.”

I bristled immediately. While I believe my son is smart enough to get into medical school, if he chooses a different graduate program, I will be proud of him. I would never see him as not having gone “all the way.” And here’s why: my son’s motivation for entering the medical field—at least in part—is to have a positive impact on the lives of others. He doesn’t need to be an MD to do that.

I may not know everything, but I know a lot about being a patient. I’ve spent my fair share of time in hospitals, clinics, ERs, procedure rooms, and recovery rooms. I’ve interacted with everyone from surgeons to nurses, CNAs, patient care techs, therapists of all kinds, pharmacists, and imaging technicians. I’ve been impacted both positively and negatively by all of them—no special credentials required.

I recall one early admission in the ICU. It was terrifying. They were listing me for my heart transplant while simultaneously trying to stabilize my erratic heartbeat. I was bewildered, scared, and miserable—and to top it off, my ICU room had no windows, no privacy, and no toilet. The cardiothoracic surgery team came to meet me. I don’t remember much from that meeting, but after everyone else left, one PA stayed behind. With tears in his eyes, he said, “What you’re going through is very scary. We’ll do everything we can to help.”

Another memory comes from a particularly rough pre-transplant clinic visit—perhaps when I was told my transplant listing would be paused while I underwent treatment for thyroid cancer. I broke down in tears. I’d been stoic until that moment, but everything spilled over. My fake eyelashes fell off. My nose ran. It was embarrassing. The doctor hugged me—a gesture unusual for physicians, at least in my experience. Then, that weekend, on her own time, she called to check in on me.

Even now, I sometimes dread my visits to the cardiac clinic. I occasionally leave feeling gaslit or hopeless. The clinic isn’t my favorite place. Yet, even there, I’ve noticed small acts that matter. A medical assistant compliments my outfits and tells me I look nice. That simple kindness motivates me to show up with a smile, to demonstrate that I am worth supporting.

I’ve had nurses hold my hand, patient care techs remember my name and greet me with a smile, echocardiogram techs treat me like a human being, and doctors treat me more like a friend than a body in a bed.

One of my favorite stories comes from a hospital stay while being treated for Lippy. I was trying to make the best of it, to find silver linings. There was a housekeeper who swept my floor almost every day. I could tell by the shine in his brown eyes beneath his mask that he was genuinely happy. Aaron, ever the conversation starter, asked where he was from. He paused, smiled, and shared his story.

He was a refugee from Eritrea in East Africa, who had spent 14 years in forced military service and 15 years in a refugee camp in Ethiopia before coming to America. He had lived in Seattle before settling in Salt Lake City. He had a wife and five beautiful children, proudly showing us photos. He bragged about his daughter, who had earned a scholarship to a local college.

Then, humbly and tenderly, he spoke of his son, whom he thanked God for before recounting how his son had become involved in a gang and tragically lost his life to senseless violence at a nearby trailhead. I remembered hearing about the incident in the news. My heart broke for him, this unassuming man.

“I do not judge,” he said. “I thank God; he was a gift.”

In that moment, this man—through his vulnerable authenticity—made me feel seen, valued, connected, and human again. And perhaps, in that connection, I found the medicine I truly needed to begin healing.

The lessons I take from these experiences are clear—and there are always lessons:

Never let adversity dim your light.
Never let your circumstances interfere with your ability to connect with another person or to act on what you feel called to do.
Life itself is the best course in kindness, the best training in compassion.
No credential is required to be a decent human.
And there is no gatekeeper to having a positive impact on someone’s life.

It’s not about titles or degrees. It’s about showing up, being present, and living with empathy. Any human can do that.