Tag: god

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.

The Quiet Joy of Beginning Again

The first official training run for my 5K goal is done. Did I last the full 3.1 miles? No. Did I run the entire time? Also no. But running the entire time is not the point. The point, for now, is solely and exclusively to eventually register for—and complete—an organized 5K. So this morning’s frosty 2.4-mile jog, chock-full of uphill walk breaks, was, in my mind, perfect.

I set out this morning knowing full well that I wouldn’t run the entire time. I planned a route with plenty of hills, focusing on running the downhill portions and briskly walking the uphill parts. It was bitterly cold, hovering right around 20 degrees Fahrenheit. My hands and ears became so numb that I momentarily worried I might do some kind of permanent damage (in packing for our week away, I forgot proper gloves and a hat for running in such cold temperatures).

Regardless of preparation—or lack thereof—slow pace, and shorter-than-ideal distance, I set out this morning to take the first step toward my goal, and I did it.

There was a time when running served primarily as a distraction. A distraction from responsibility, from emotions I didn’t want to confront, and from parts of myself I thought were ugly—not physically, though regular exercise certainly helps with that—but the internal parts of me, parts my personality, that I knew needed change or growth.

It’s true that during runs I often found myself in deep self-reflection. I would revisit interactions, recognize where I had been wrong, and consider what I could have done differently. Sometimes I would pray while running, sorting through hopes and fears, wrestling with mortality, and speaking with the One who could offer the sincerest help. But mostly, running gave me a distraction—albeit a healthy one.

In 2021, when that distraction was taken from me with a diagnosis of ARVC—or ACM, as the kids are calling it these days—I found myself adrift. Where could I turn for peace, sanctuary, or reflection? I had faith, yes, and my faith practices were—and still are—a great source of peace. But the higher forms of worship were not always available to me on demand. Running had been an easy, rewarding outlet, and it wasn’t easily replaced.

Throughout the eighteen months I spent waiting for a heart transplant, the six months leading up to my transplant listing, and the many months of recovery afterward, I turned to several other forms of distraction—some of which I’m not particularly proud.

I tried my hand at designing graphics for shirts and ended up selling sweatshirts with my designs to friends and family.

I explored certain subreddits on Reddit—mostly those centered on criticizing local social media influencers. This one I’m not proud of. Reddit can be a dark place, full of negativity and hatred. I do not, and cannot, recommend this distraction.

As a family, we took to driving around, seeing the sights, admiring mountain views, and exploring neighborhoods we had yet to visit.

We also adopted the pastime of visiting every Parade of Homes our state had to offer. While entertaining—if not exhausting—it led to feelings of emptiness, as our focus shifted toward what our own home lacked and what needed improvement. As such, this became another distraction I cannot fully recommend.

This is not an exhaustive list, but rather a snapshot of where my mind lived for nearly three years. What I learned during that time is this: our distractions become our habits, our habits become our lifestyle, and our lifestyle shapes our beliefs. Choose distractions that enhance and enrich your life—or that move you closer to the life you want.

If you’re in a season of waiting, grief, stress, or upheaval, it’s okay to hit pause. Sometimes moving forward feels too difficult, or even inappropriate. Sometimes simply standing still is the bravest option. And that is okay.

While we all want to shout for joy from the finish lines of our personal races, sometimes we find ourselves waiting apprehensively at the starting line, fully aware of the struggle ahead. There can be joy there too—a quieter joy, rooted in hope and faith, if we choose it. That same place can also become one of bitterness and envy, if we allow it.

Before my transplant—before my heart went haywire—I ran somewhere around twenty races. I may have placed in my age group a few times, but I never won a single race. Winning was never the point. The prize isn’t the trophy, after all.

The prize is who you become in the choosing, in the showing up, in the steady willingness to begin again—one imperfect step at a time. And this morning, in the cold, on tired legs and borrowed patience, I took that step.

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.

In Good Hands

Sit with me for a minute, will you, and let me tell you about a dream I had that wasn’t really just a dream at all.

First, a little backstory. We were driving through Salt Lake City when Aaron’s phone rang. It was a friend from work who had a connection to a PA working with an electrophysiologist—a cardiologist who specializes in heart rhythm disorders—who could fit me in for an appointment quickly. Desperate, we accepted the next available opening.

Unbeknownst to us, we had agreed to see the very doctor who had treated me 25 years earlier. I hadn’t liked him then—let’s just say his bedside manner was lacking—and sadly, we did not like him now either. Nevertheless, within a month, he diagnosed me with ARVC, placed an ICD, and referred me to an interventional cardiologist for follow-up care. Over the next two months, Aaron and I both had misgivings; we woke up in the middle of the night feeling I needed a change of providers.

At that time, I was receiving care at IMC in Murray, Utah. Our insurance covered most services, but some things required referrals elsewhere—a frustrating hassle. There were other issues, too: a hospital admission where my doctors could not be reached, test results that never came, and a general sense of lack of urgency regarding my care. Eventually, we made the switch to the University of Utah—a decision that pleased our insurance but left us uncertain.

That’s when I had the dream.

I was in an empty banquet hall with windows overlooking the city. It was just my family and me when in walked Russell M. Nelson, then president of the LDS Church and a former renowned heart surgeon and researcher, and his wife. He sat next to me on a padded window seat, placed his hand on my knee, and said, “We are aware of what’s going on, and you are in good hands.”

That was it. That was the entirety of the dream. Yet I woke feeling warmly comforted.

Fast forward a few months and several traumatic events, and I found myself waiting for a heart transplant. At the University of Utah, three surgeons performed heart transplants, and the surgeon on the day of surgery was the “luck of the draw.” Patients are encouraged to consult with one or more surgeons while waiting. I met Dr. Selzman during a particularly grueling two-week admission following a VT storm—an episode of uncontrolled ventricular tachycardia. I was informed I would be listed for a transplant and then bombarded with the pre-listing battery of tests. I met countless specialists, residents, med students, fellows, technicians, social workers, and nurses—their faces blurred together, and Dr. Selzman’s was just another among many.

I met another surgeon, Dr. Goodwin, during the following 18 months of my waiting. He was friendly, quiet, confident, and passionate about his work. Aaron and I felt reassured that we were in good hands.

Then, on December 14, 2023, the call finally came: “Fiauna, we have a heart for you. Are you ready?”

Nothing can prepare you for that call. No matter how many times you rehearse it in your head, checklists you’ve crossed off, bags packed, or prayers said, when it comes, you are struck speechless. We made phone calls, gathered our family, had a small Christmas gift exchange—because we had no idea what life might look like on the other side of this day—and headed to the hospital.

During pre-op, scheduled in the early hours of December 15, the staff repeatedly told us how lucky we were because Dr. Selzman was on call. Their words barely registered. I felt dizzy, nauseous, and weak. Anxiety consumed me. Soon, a surgeon I had barely met would cut into my chest and remove my most vital organ. And if things didn’t go well…

I was acutely aware that somewhere, for some family, this was the worst night of their lives.

As the anesthesia team inserted an arterial line into my arm, my blood pressure plummeted. I felt myself losing consciousness and prayed silently: “Heavenly Father, please hold me.”

I have no recollection of what happened next, but Aaron says Dr. Selzman walked in calmly, said, “Oh, I know how to fix this,” and wheeled me to the operating room.

Later, after recovery, while walking the cardiology unit, I saw a plaque on the wall bearing a picture of President Russell M. Nelson embracing Dr. Craig H. Selzman.

Remember my dream, where President Russell M. Nelson told me I was in good hands? Had it been just a dream, or did President Nelson somehow know I truly would be?

In 2018—five years before my transplant—the University of Utah created the Dr. Russell M. Nelson and Dantzel W. Nelson Presidential Chair in Cardiothoracic Surgery, a professorship awarded to Dr. Selzman. Five years later, President Nelson donated his professional journals to the University. In a meeting with dignitaries from around the world, Dr. Selzman shared what he had learned from President Nelson. Then, in the October 2025 General Conference of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Elder Dale G. Renlund, also a retired heart surgeon, shared a story about Dr. Selzman:

“Dr. Selzman recounted that, four days before being appointed to the professorship, after a long day in the OR, he learned that a patient needed to return to surgery. Fatigued and disappointed, he resolved to act differently. President Nelson had been known for his composure, respect, and patience, and Dr. Selzman determined that his actions in the operating room would emulate those qualities. Though already considerate, he chose to be even better, mindful of the impact on his team.”

Almost two years have passed since my transplant, and over a year and a half since my last follow-up with Dr. Selzman. There is a strange intimacy in trusting someone with your life, someone who has held your heart in their hands. Yet, the day-to-day of a surgeon’s life moves on, leaving behind a subtle emptiness for the patient.

Healthcare often makes us feel like a number, not a human being, and our stories can feel invisible. This is not uncommon. I know firsthand the long hours, low wages, and lack of support in the healthcare profession. But feeling unseen can make self-advocacy difficult, and self-advocacy is vital to good outcomes. Feeling safe and valued matters.

Elder Renlund’s talk illuminated this for me. Before surgery, I had understood the professional significance of Dr. Selzman’s award. That was meaningful. But learning about the character lessons he drew from President Nelson—composure, respect, patience—transformed everything. I felt seen, I felt safe.

I realized then that my dream had not been solely about easing anxiety or reassuring me about my choice of surgeon. It was a whisper of love from a Father in Heaven who knows all things and prepares a way. From the start, I had been held in the very best of hands.

His hand is in all things. If you can’t see it, look for it. What you seek, you will find.

And that is the story of a dream that wasn’t just a dream after all.

Jars of Hearts and Fishing Line

Another day, another five-mile walk in the autumn sun. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: what a privilege.

There was a time I would have taken that for granted—not just the walking, but the friendship and camaraderie that comes from spending miles in conversation with friends.

What seems like a lifetime ago, I was a runner. Running was solitary for me, exactly how I liked it. It gave me space for my thoughts. Pounding my burdens into the pavement became my therapy.

I began walking with friends after buying my first home and having a few kids. That’s when I discovered the joy of female companionship, and I learned that doing something hard together—especially something physically demanding like exercise—can strengthen relationships in ways words alone cannot.

But life grew noisy. The demands of motherhood and the endless “more important” tasks slowly edged out those near-daily walks with friends.

In 2012, I suffered a traumatizing miscarriage and fell into depression. Aaron gently suggested I find a hobby to help me recover. I decided to certify in group fitness and began teaching a Pilates-and-yoga-fusion class I called Mix Method. Later, I added High Fitness to reach a broader audience and bring a little cardio fun into the mix.

Putting myself out there wasn’t easy at first, but week by week, my class attendance grew. I had my regular ladies who came faithfully, and others who popped in when life allowed. We spent years sweating side by side, learning from one another, laughing, struggling, and celebrating our progress. I called them my friends, and I hoped they felt the same. Doing something difficult—especially something physical—has a way of bonding people.

But it all ended.

That cursed day in October 2021, my heart could take no more. With my ARVC diagnosis, it was no longer safe to teach fitness classes. I was a literal ticking time bomb. Teaching had been my social life, my way of connecting. Without it, I felt like I had no value outside providing classes.

At one point, I had to write an email to High Fitness to cancel my membership and close my instructor portal. I would never teach aerobics safely again; my heart was broken. I explained my situation—that I needed a heart transplant—and their response was, “That must be scary for you. Have fun in your next adventure!”

I wasn’t sure what response I had expected, but it certainly wasn’t that. I felt dropped like a wet brick by a community I thought I could rely on.

There have been times in the last four years when I felt deeply alone. That feeling is common for people who have gone through something as traumatic as a heart transplant—there are few who can relate, and some distance themselves out of discomfort or fear. I also noticed that my conversations often circled back to my health, which can be boring or isolating for others.

Almost exactly two years ago, I sat in my car, tucked inside the garage, feeling utterly destitute. My health was failing, and I knew my days of driving were coming to an end. That morning, while taking my daughter to school during a dizzy spell, I had driven directly into the path of a dump truck, narrowly avoiding disaster with the next turn. I had to admit: I was no longer safe behind the wheel. By that time, I had been waiting for a heart for more than a year. I realized that in order to get better, things were going to have to get so much worse. I needed a miracle. I cried. I prayed. I cried and prayed again.

And I felt so alone.

I asked God to send me someone, anyone, to help me—someone to ease my burden, to distract me from the crushing loneliness. The answer was clear: no.

Surprised? I was. It seemed like such a simple request. I wasn’t asking for an earth-shaking miracle. I wasn’t asking for the heart I needed. I was asking for someone to reach out and ease my loneliness.

The answer was no because I had lessons to learn—one of which was to notice and appreciate the ways people were already showing up, even in small ways.

This is one reason I collect heart-shaped rocks.

On my kitchen counter sits a jar of heart rocks. Most are collected from nature—small gifts from a loving Father in Heaven, reminders to see miracles every day. Some are gifts from people in my life, accompanied by notes that say, “I saw this rock and thought of you.”

My son, Aiden, served a mission in Ghana. Fishing is a big part of life there in Cape Coast. Fishermen take large nets from the beach and cast them into the ocean. At the end of the day, they pull the nets ashore to see what they’ve caught. The nets are huge, and they cannot be hauled in by one man alone—so others step in to help.

One day, Aiden and his companion came across such a scene. They began to help pull for an hour before two of the fishermen began arguing. To Aiden’s surprise, everyone else dropped the line and walked away. No fish were hauled in that day.

In life, we all have our own lines we’re pulling, our own responsibilities and messy challenges. At the same time, we are called to show up for others. We don’t have to haul in the nets alone.

Recognizing how people show up—big or small—makes a difference. A sincere, “How can I pray for you?” or “You’re in my prayers” goes a long way. Faith-filled prayer, followed by acting on promptings, is one of the most charitable things we can do. After all, in the final hours before His death, that is exactly what Christ did for all of us.

I am blessed to see these acts in my life: God’s angels taking up my line, helping me haul in my nets. Offering a prayer, silent or spoken. Noticing a heart-shaped rock, cloud, or even a Pringles chip. Sending a morning text: “Walk at 9?”—and then filling the miles with our words and laughter.

What a privilege.