Tag: gratitude

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.

Permission to be Human

The holiday season arrives each year dressed in bright lights and confident cheer, announcing itself as a time when everyone is supposed to feel warm, grateful, and whole. Songs insist on joy. Social media posts glow with parties and matching sweaters. Calendars fill with gatherings and traditions. But sometimes this season quietly overlaps with something much heavier: reality—illness, exhaustion, and a sadness that feels out of place among all the celebration.

Being sick during the holidays carries a particular loneliness. Sickness already narrows the world—your body asks you to slow down, to cancel plans, to listen closely to discomfort. When it coincides with a season that emphasizes togetherness and energy, that narrowing can feel like exclusion and loneliness. You may watch celebrations from a distance, physically or emotionally unable to participate. Even minor illnesses can feel larger in December, as if they are stealing something precious and irreplaceable.

There is also the emotional weight of feeling “down” when happiness seems mandatory. Feeling anything less than cheerful during the holidays often brings guilt along with it—the sense that you are wasting something special, that you should be more thankful, more cheerful, more present. This pressure can make sadness feel like a personal failure rather than a human response. It can be difficult to admit you are struggling when everything around you insists this is the season of joy.

And so a cycle forms. When the body is weak or in pain, the mind grows heavy. When the mind is heavy, the body feels even more tired. Days blur together. Things that once brought comfort and excitement—decorating, cooking, visiting—may feel like an extra chore. Instead of anticipation, there is endurance. Instead of celebration, there’s perseverance. 

A few nights ago, I woke in the darkness with intense back pain. I rolled carefully in bed, trying not to wake Aaron. He has been especially busy at work with end-of-year planning, and I didn’t want to disturb his sleep. As the night went on, I found myself in pain and needing the restroom every thirty minutes. I had no choice in the matter—despite all my effort, my restlessness woke Aaron. Though I knew what was happening, I didn’t want to admit I needed help. If I was sick and went to the hospital, there was a real chance I could end up admitted. And that would ruin Christmas for the whole family. So, I convinced him I could wait it out.

By morning, I felt better and proudly announced to my family, “I passed a kidney stone last night.” I assumed the worst was behind me. The next day we went holiday shopping, watched a movie, and I cuddled my granddaughter—quietly congratulating myself for getting through that awful night without intervention.

The following evening, after a beautiful Christmas Sunday at church, the pain returned. Slowly at first, then steadily worsening. As it intensified, so too did the realization that I needed help. A fever followed, and the night became a long stretch of pain and discomfort. Again, I tried not to wake Aaron. He had client appointments the next day, along with a Christmas lunch for his employees. How could I interrupt that?

By morning, he insisted on driving me to the emergency room. I urged Aaron to leave and attend to his commitments—I was trying to be strong. After tests confirmed a kidney stone and a kidney infection, and after receiving IV antibiotics, to my relief, I was discharged. Without a car to drive myself home, I wandered the hospital after stopping at the pharmacy, waiting for Aaron to finish and come pick me up.

A hospital during the holidays is an interesting place. In the midst of suffering—patients arriving and leaving with varying levels of anxiety, pain, and sadness—there are Christmas trees, ribbons, and people dressed in holiday cheer. The contrast can feel jarring. In all the noise and festivity of Christmas, the quiet plight of the sick can feel overlooked.

But as I waited, I witnessed something unexpected.

Near the main entrance, a group of hospital employees—some wearing Santa hats—gathered around the information desk. They were visibly excited, anticipating something. A delivery was coming. “There are thirty-two more boxes!” someone exclaimed. “That’s about sixteen hundred total!” another replied. Their faces lit up with amazement.

Soon, volunteers arrived pushing carts stacked high with boxes. Inside were children’s books—gifts for children spending the holidays in the hospital. But the books weren’t the real gift.

The real gift was written on faces. The volunteers delivering the boxes and the staff receiving them glowed with joy, excitement, and hope—hope that their efforts might brighten someone else’s holiday, even in a small way.

Last year, to mark the first anniversary of my heart transplant, I donated fifty satin pillowcases to the hospital for transplant patients. Each one was wrapped with a bow and included a note of encouragement—something I knew would have lifted my own spirits during my hospital stays. I never saw them distributed. I never received a thank-you. Yet the act of giving brought me immense joy. The benefactor became the recipient.

But acts of charity during the holidays don’t have look grand—humble, simple things work just as well.  Things as simple as patience in a checkout line, anonymous generosity, choosing compassion when it would be easier to rush past all help in little-yet-persuasive ways. These moments don’t erase pain or sickness, but they remind us that gentleness still exists. And sometimes that’s all we need to restore our hope. Because sometimes hope doesn’t come from summoning strength within ourselves, but from witnessing how willingly others offer theirs.

The holidays are often portrayed as a dreamscape of cheer and togetherness. But in real life, holiday magic doesn’t always arrive as excitement or optimism. More often, it arrives quietly—in kindness witnessed when you are still enough to notice, in generosity unfolding around you, in the trust that this moment is not permanent even when you cannot yet imagine what comes next. Hope doesn’t require certainty; it only asks for openness.

Here I offer permission to be human. If this holiday season finds you ill or feeling down, let that be okay. Let it be a chapter, not a verdict. Care for yourself in the ways you can. Accept care when it is offered. Release the idea that you must perform joy to deserve this season. Even now—especially now—you are allowed to be human.

And when you look ahead, past the decorations and the calendar and this heavy moment, remember this: the light you are waiting for does not disappear when you are sick or sad. It shows itself in generosity, in patience, in quiet acts of care. The holidays will pass. Your strength will return. Lighter days are ahead. Hope is already here, quietly at work, even when all you can do is rest.

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.

Deep in the Sweet Melancholy

In the movie Elizabethtown, the character Drew Baylor stands in his aunt’s kitchen with a group of new-to-him relatives following his father’s viewing. While visiting estranged family in Kentucky, Drew’s father had passed away from a heart attack and Drew was sent by his mother and sister from Oregon to take care of the funeral and bring his father’s remains home. Chaos ensues. In this particular scene, the night is warm, the light is low, they’re obviously tired both physically and emotionally, yet they’re smiling as they revel in a sweet melancholy that often follows traumatic life events. 

I love this scene. It calls to mind a difficult-to-describe sentimentality that you have to experience to understand. It is this almost peaceful longing, a reverent recall of difficult times. As if the slow let down  that happens following the adrenaline rush and fear, provides its own serotonin release, cementing a beautiful nostalgia all its own.

This is what my family experienced in the month following my heart transplant.

As you recall, my miracle phone call happened on December 14th 2023, with surgery taking place in the wee hours of the morning of December 15th–just in time for the holidays. I had a record recovery and left the hospital eight days after surgery—it would have been seven but I begged for one more day to learn how to manage my medications and get a hold on my blood sugars. Nevertheless, I was released from the hospital on December 23rd—just in time to celebrate Christmas with my family.

Coming home from the hospital felt a lot like bringing home a newborn infant. For me it meant a whole new way of life. While I had gone through a lot of training on medications and things to watch for, I felt unprepared and scared. My body did not feel like my own. I was weak and sore and dependent on everyone around me—something I wasn’t used to. Even showering was a new experience with procedures and regimens that needed following and for which I needed assistance. It was bewildering. 

As I was so fresh from transplant, I basically had no immune system. My transplant team asked us to keep visitors to a minimum. We decided to basically act like it was the 2020 pandemic again and go on lockdown. Our married daughter came back home with her husband, our college-age sons moved back in (it was winter break anyway), and we hunkered down. Even though surgery had gone well and my recovery was, for all intents and purposes, on track, we were still taking things day by day. 

We fell into a rhythm of sorts: wake up, take medicine, check all my vital signs, make our way to the family room, take medicine, eat cheese (seriously, we ate six pounds of cheese), take medicine, assemble legos, take medicine, share a meal, take medicine, make the strenuous journey up the stairs to my room and take all of my vitals again, take medicine, make our way to bed for a restless night of worry and night sweats (oh, the joyous transplant medication side effects).

There were the inevitable excursions out to the lab, the pharmacy, or to the hospital for right heart caths and biopsies. I hated those times. Those days were long for me. I could barely walk across a room, let alone last an entire day navigating the halls of the University of Utah hospital. I was expected to arrive, fasting, at the hospital usually before 7:45 a.m. for my then weekly biopsies to check the progress of my heart’s healing and monitor any signs of rejection, and we wouldn’t arrive back home before 5:00 p.m. Thankfully, neighbors and friends often provided dinner for our little tribe on those harrowing days. 

For me, just the like the early weeks of motherhood, the days were simple but hard.

The holidays came and went and we existed in our own little bubble. 

No Christmas Eve parties. No family Christmas dinners. No Sunday services. No New Year’s Eve party. Just the seven of us gathered around the six-pound block of Muenster and the Titanic lego set.

The thing is, however, when we each think back on that Christmas and holiday season we each remember it with this deep, sweet nostalgia for the melancholy of that time. And though this is just my retelling of that season, we talk about it in a similar way. While we’re all grateful to have moved on and healed from that winter of 2023-24 we all express a longing, if you will, for those simple-but-hard days.

There can be a pulling together, a unifying in times like these. Where difficult events often force change—change in our lives and changes in ourselves—nostalgia pulls us back together. Whether it arises through grief brought on by loss or through the emotional release that takes place following periods of great stress, this sense of exhausted tranquility helps us process intense feelings into something–well, transcendent.

Call it a coping mechanism, call it delusion—call it what you will—but I call this experience a blessing for enduring well the hardships life throws our way.

I can recall one other time when I felt deep in this sweet melancholy before. It was after the passing of my brother. At the end of a long, emotional day of funeral planning we had gathered in the office of his home to go through some papers and photos. It was a warm summer night, not unlike that scene from Elizabethtown. We ended up crying and laughing, laughing and crying into the night, remembering better, easier, more innocent times. Recalling times when laughter came without tears, when memories were either good or bad, when we were uninformed on the nuances and complexities of adult relationships, and we simply would not have been able to fathom a world where joy and sorrow could exist side by side, and the understanding that we are all better for it. 

A world before we knew the longing for simple-but-hard times—and the joy of a six-pound block of cheese.

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.