Tag: life

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.

Worthy of Saving

I was here, and then I was gone.

An entire month missing.

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

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

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

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

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

But that’s just it.

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

That life was worthy of saving.

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

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

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

And maybe learning to believe that is the new goal.

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

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

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

This is me Winning

According to Dictionary.com, a superstition is defined as:

  1. a belief or notion, not based on reason or knowledge, in or of the ominous significance of a particular thing, circumstance, occurrence, proceeding, or the like;
  2. a system or collection of such beliefs;
  3. a custom or act based on such a belief.

I’ve always been superstitious. When I learned how to play solitaire as a tween, that superstition quickly found a home. I began playing the game the way others might use tarot cards: If I win this game, it means good luck. If I lose, my wish won’t come true.

Oh, don’t worry—I know from whom all blessings flow. My faith is firmly grounded and not easily shaken. But sometimes, in my humanness, I fall prey to my feelings and find myself in need of distraction. Maybe control. In some way, superstition offers me a little of both.

Recently, I’ve been thinking about the difference between emotions and feelings. The clearest way I can sum it up is this: emotions are physiological reactions to stimuli, while feelings are the thoughts we assign to those reactions based on our experiences.

Why is knowing the difference important? I don’t know. It probably isn’t. But for me, I wanted a better way to take control of my feelings—a better way than sitting down with a deck of cards and telling myself that if I win this game, everything will work out just fine.

If we understand that emotions are simply human reactions to the world around us, then we can reason that, given enough time, those emotions will pass. Feelings, on the other hand, are trickier. They get tangled up with our beliefs.

The other day, I learned something that triggered an emotion I immediately attached feelings to. Those feelings made me deeply uncomfortable. I found myself wrestling with censorious, unfriendly thoughts toward another person—and toward myself. It felt like carrying an unwelcome burden of hostility, competition, regret, and maybe even a little jealousy. When I searched for the root of those feelings, the emotion they were tied to, I landed on anger. And I had to ask myself: What am I angry about?

My husband answered that question for me. I wasn’t winning. And it wasn’t really about winning, not exactly. It was about fairness. Equality. Balance.

We aren’t all dished the same plate of struggle in this life, and that reality was making me angry. But it is reality. No amount of whining, crying, complaining, or angry lamentation will change it. So I took a deep breath and chose to move on. Once I identified the emotion behind the feelings, I could reason that there wasn’t truly a need to be angry at all.

Still, as a human, I’m entitled to my feelings. More than that—I think feelings matter. So I processed them the best way I could.

I prayed.

Then I pulled out my deck of cards and set up a game of solitaire.

If I win this game, everything will be just fine.

First game—bam—a win.

This is me winning.

I’ll Rise This Way

There are days when defeat doesn’t arrive with drama or fireworks. It doesn’t kick down the door. It just sort of… sits next to you. It eats your snacks. It asks if you’ve “really thought about this.” And before you know it, you’re staring at the ceiling, mentally replaying every decision you’ve made since 2009.

Defeat is sneaky like that.

It shows up when you’ve done most things right but still landed on your face. When you followed the plan, adjusted the plan, stayed positive about the plan—and the plan still failed you. At least that’s how it feels. It’s the kind of tired sleep doesn’t fix, the kind of unmotivated that exists even when you want to care, the kind of wondering whether everyone else got a secret elixir or code you somehow missed.

And let’s be honest: in those moments, resilience sounds a lot like toxic positivity. Resilience? Who’s she? I don’t know her.

Lately—ever since telling everyone that this year I’d like to run my first 5K since my heart broke four years ago—I’ve been feeling a total lack of motivation and, as a side effect, resilience. If fatigue and ennui were part of my training plan, I’d be absolutely crushing it right now.

When I’m feeling defeated, I don’t want a pep talk. I want a nap. And snacks. Or to dramatically announce, “I’m taking a break from life. Don’t contact me until further notice.”

But here’s the uncomfortable truth: resilience rarely looks like a triumphant comeback montage. It’s not a swelling soundtrack or a slow-motion jog toward victory. Don’t be fooled by all those videos of people triumphantly crossing marathon finish lines, hands raised high, sweat and tears streaking down their faces—though that is the picture of resilience I thought would be mine.

Most of the time, resilience looks painfully unremarkable.

It looks like getting up and doing the next small thing while still feeling awful.


It looks like doing the laundry one load at a time.


Or changing from pajamas into comfy sweats during the day for no other reason than to smell a little better.


It looks like saying, “I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’ll try again tomorrow,” and meaning it… kind of.

Resilience is strength that isn’t looking for applause. It doesn’t even require optimism—at least not right away, even if it sometimes masquerades as it. To be resilient, you don’t have to believe everything will work out. You just have to believe that stopping entirely isn’t the answer—at least not today.

And that’s the part people don’t talk about enough: you can carry disappointment with you like an awkward backpack and keep walking anyway. Strength doesn’t require enthusiasm. It just requires movement.

Slow, consistent movement.

It comes down to choices. In my experience, all of this is a choice. When you’re winning at life, everything feels important and shiny, like it’s meant for you. It’s easy then to choose happiness and optimism. It’s easy to find purpose, to feel like what you’re doing matters.

But when you’re defeated, you suddenly see what actually matters—what’s worth continuing, what can be let go, and which expectations were never yours to begin with. Some things become easier to release, while it becomes harder to find meaning in it all.

Yet for all the ways defeat humbles you, it also clarifies. It teaches you where your limits are—and, more importantly, where they aren’t.

And slowly, almost annoyingly slowly, something shifts.

You realize you didn’t quit.


You realize you’re still here.


You realize that even on your worst days, you’re capable of showing up in imperfect, human ways.

Dinner may come from a box or a fast-food drive-thru, but the family gets fed regardless.

That’s resilience.

Not the absence of struggle, but the refusal to let struggle be the final word.

Despite the fatigue, the lack of visible progress, the burning lungs and sluggish legs, I’m not letting go of my goal. I don’t need the confidence that I’ll win—or even run—the 5K in order to stay in the game. I may not make any dramatic leaps forward, but I’ll keep taking stubborn, slightly grumpy steps ahead.

And maybe that’s enough for now. Maybe resilience, for me, isn’t about proving anything or crossing a finish line with my hands in the air—though that dream is hard to relinquish. Maybe resilience is simply about choosing to show up again tomorrow, even if tomorrow looks a lot like today. I’m learning that I don’t need to feel strong to be strong—I just need to keep going. One step, one breath, one imperfect try at a time. And if that’s what rising looks like right now, then I’m willing to rise this way.

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.

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.

Grace, Grief, and a 5K

I’ve never really been one for goal setting; New Year’s resolutions aren’t usually my thing. As a fitness instructor, I never even endorsed the idea. My thoughts on goal setting were always centered on changing simple habits, finding enjoyable hobbies, and seeing how life evolves from there. I still recommend this approach. But something about surviving a heart transplant—and getting older—has made me want to aim for something this coming year. Nothing wild. Just a little something to work toward.

It’s normal to come out of a traumatic experience—especially a medical trauma—feeling a little lost, or as some say, a little empty. When we think we should be feeling joy and gratitude, we might instead feel guilt, purposelessness, or our own version of grief. Many of us assume a transplant will change us, improve us, only to wake up and realize that the only things that have changed are a new organ and a regimen of life-sustaining medications.

I can attest to all of these feelings—this has been my experience. Writing helps. As do time with family, my faith, and my near-daily walks with friends. These things help me express myself, feel understood, and provide a sense of belonging that I deeply missed while waiting for my transplant and during recovery.

It was that feeling of belonging that kept me rooted in running for so many years. You see, I was never a good enough runner to be remotely competitive. Early on, I didn’t even particularly enjoy it. But over time, as it became part of my everyday routine, running evolved into an invigorating, cleansing ritual. I considered it as much a part of my hygiene regimen as brushing my teeth. A daily sweat session could purify my soul almost as effectively as repentance and prayer. In fact, whether on the treadmill or the pavement, I often found myself in an attitude of self-reflection that naturally led to prayer and repentance.

Then, at the age of 24, I registered for my first race—a spring fun run in Sugar House Park. My neighbor and I signed up together as a way to get back in shape after having our first babies just one week apart. It was at that fun run that I discovered running could offer something more: community. The shared enthusiasm, anticipation, and—dare I say—joy were contagious. It never seemed to matter that I wasn’t elite, had never run a marathon (thank goodness, as that level of training could have accelerated my ARVC progression and need for a transplant), or ran in leggings instead of speed shorts. I was one of them—a runner, part of a unique group of people who tolerated pain and endured grueling circumstances better than most.

Running became more than a daily habit; it became a part of my identity.

Unfortunately, after my ARVC (arrhythmogenic right ventricular cardiomyopathy) diagnosis, running was something I had to give up. Over time, I made peace with that prescription. Even so, there was a hole left behind—a void where running once lived. I will probably always grieve those easy days when the rhythm of my feet hitting the ground felt natural and effortless, as well as that community I no longer feel a part of.

Recently, I read an article in Bonus Days magazine about a young woman named Wendy who received a small bowel transplant during the COVID restrictions of 2022. Isolation was the norm then, especially in the hospital. Her husband couldn’t even be with her during her inpatient stay. In the article, she shared two insights that stood out to me. When asked what illness had taught her, she said, “Health is a crown only the sick can see.” And when asked what joy looks like for her now, she said, “To get to a place of joy with where I am, I had to grieve the life I thought I was going to have so I could make space for the amazing and beautiful life that I do have.”

I said in an earlier post that it is perfectly okay to see the clouds along with the silver lining. We don’t always have to maintain a shining outlook to prove our gratitude. Without recognition and reflection, the hard parts of our lives can’t teach us anything. If we don’t look back, we’ll never know how far we’ve come. Grieving is an honest and necessary part of that process.

I know I will never be the runner I once was—age alone presents enough of a barrier. But my goal for 2026—my New Year’s resolution, if you will—is to train for, sign up for, and complete an organized 5K. I know I won’t be fast and won’t place anywhere near the top of my age group. But I will be proud of myself for showing up—for allowing myself the space to release old expectations and reconnect with a part of myself I thought I had mourned and buried long ago. 

This goal isn’t about reclaiming what I lost or proving that I’m “back.” It’s about honoring who I am now—someone shaped by grief, grit, and resilience. Crossing that finish line won’t symbolize victory over illness or a return to a former identity. Instead, it will mark my willingness to keep moving forward, to carry the past with tenderness and gratitude rather than regret, and to make room for joy as it exists today. I am healing, and healing takes honesty, grace, and a fair amount of courage. Sometimes the bravest thing we can do isn’t to run faster or farther, but simply to have the faith to begin again.

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.