grieving – Witness Marks

The Beautiful Weight of a Shorter Life

A few summers ago, while travel was on hold as I waited for a heart transplant, my family had to get creative about how we spent our time. With nowhere to go and plenty of hours to fill, we found ourselves wandering through the city cemetery.

Morbid? Maybe.

But for us, it felt more like a small, unintentional anthropology project.

We began noticing patterns in the dates carved into the headstones. Our completely unscientific research revealed something interesting: if a person managed to survive childhood, the next major hurdle seemed to be middle age.

There were a surprising number of headstones marking lives that ended around fifty.

And by anyone’s standards, fifty is not old.

That observation has stayed with me.

Recently, my autistic daughter Keelie learned that her dear friend Annie is facing a health challenge. In a moment of anxious honesty she said, “I’m afraid Annie won’t live to be eighty years old.”

Annie is twenty-five.

And the truth is, reaching twenty-five is something Annie’s family already considers a miracle, given the circumstances of her extremely premature birth.

She isn’t the only young person I know living with what might be called a “limited-time offer” here on earth. Sadly, there are a few others whose lives carry that same uncertainty.

And yet, if you know them, you know something remarkable.

Their lives are beautiful. Meaningful. Inspiring.

Each one seems to have been gifted with talents, interests, and joys that exist for no other obvious reason than to bring them happiness—or perhaps to quietly teach the rest of us something about how life is meant to be lived.

If you know, you know.

No one who knows these young people would ever say their lives lack purpose. If anything, their lives shine with it.

And because of that, we celebrate differently. Each year matters more. Each month. Each ordinary day.

So what would you do if you knew your life might be shorter than expected?

I’ll tell you one thing—it has a funny way of making sixty-year-olds look awfully young.

The other night Aaron and I found ourselves talking about death and dying. I’ll admit, it’s not exactly the most romantic bedtime conversation. But the question came up: why are people so afraid of death?

Aging, at least from what we can observe, doesn’t always look particularly appealing. If we’re honest, the process leaves quite a bit to be desired. So if aging isn’t exactly the dream scenario, why does the thought of death frighten us so much?

And suddenly something occurred to me—something I had realized before but never quite put into words.

I had faced death once already.

I had looked it straight in the eye.

And what I felt wasn’t fear.

It was sorrow.

In the months leading up to my transplant, there were moments when the reality of my situation would surface with startling clarity. The heart condition that made my transplant necessary—ARVC, also known as ACM—could have caused sudden cardiac arrest at any time. And of course, the transplant surgery itself carried its own risks.

I didn’t know when the call would come telling me a heart was available. But in the weeks before it finally did, I had a strange sense that something was approaching.

The only way I can describe that time is that it felt a little like Katniss Everdeen before she entered the arena in The Hunger Games—a quiet moment standing at the edge of something enormous and uncertain.

But the truth is, I wasn’t afraid to die.

What I feared was leaving.

Leaving my husband.
Leaving my children.
Leaving the people I love to carry the weight of that loss.

Because I know what that kind of loss feels like.

I have already grieved the deaths of too many people I love—a dear brother, a beloved sister-in-law and friend, my daddy, and grandparents who meant the world to me. I know the hollow ache grief leaves behind.

And if there is anything I would wish to spare someone, it would be that kind of pain.

But grief tells a story of its own.

It tells us that a life mattered.

It tells us that love was real.

And in that sense, a life that is deeply loved—no matter how long it lasts—is not a tragedy.

It is something to celebrate.

A life isn’t measured only in its length, but in the love it gathers and the meaning it leaves behind. Some people are given many decades to discover that truth. Others seem to understand it much earlier. And the rest of us, if we’re paying attention, are lucky enough to learn from them—to celebrate the ordinary days, to hold our people a little closer, and to remember that even a shorter story can still be a meaningful one.

The Gym is not Your Village

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

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

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

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

That is community.
That is a village.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps This is the Real Work

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.