Tag: organ-recipient

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.

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.

What I Couldn’t Say Out Loud

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And He delivered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am keeping my promise.

I will never stop sharing my miracle.

Five Rules For Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Dad, A Fortune Cookie, and a New Beat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Jars of Hearts and Fishing Line

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it all ended.

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

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

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

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

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

And I felt so alone.

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

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

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

This is one reason I collect heart-shaped rocks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What a privilege.

The Five Mile Trail

Today I walked five miles.

The sun was shining, and the air held that perfect autumn-day crispness. We had the trail mostly to ourselves—Christine, Millie, and me—and we talked freely, filling the miles with whatever drifted into our minds.

Five miles. What a privilege.

At one point, we passed a neighborhood friend, Megan. She commented on how fast we were—and we were, moving along at a pace of fifteen or sixteen minutes per mile. Without missing a beat, Millie and Christine both said, “Well, Fiauna has a new, young heart. It wants to go fast!”

I have a 21-year-old heart.

That’s a fact that still brings me to tears. My donor was only nineteen years old when her life ended and her heart was donated to extend mine.

After my transplant, while I was still in the hospital, the social worker came to my room during a rare moment of privacy and asked if I wanted to know what little information she was allowed to share about my donor. Surprisingly, I had to think about it.

Did I really want to know?

It seems like such an obvious question, but after everything I had been through, I had to ask myself how much I truly wanted to carry. That information felt sacred somehow. Holding any knowledge at all felt like a responsibility I wasn’t sure I was capable of bearing. It’s hard to explain exactly why. There are good things and hard things that come with knowing. We are all just human, after all, and sometimes the magic you hope and pray for can also break your heart.

While I was waiting for transplant, I heard all the anecdotes about organ transplants and personality changes—believe me. My father-in-law shared, more than once, a story about a man in his church who received a heart from a thirteen-year-old girl and went on to develop her personality traits, right down to an uncontrollable case of the giggles. While I understood there were logical explanations—medications, trauma, the body adjusting—it still colored how I felt in that moment when I was given the chance to learn about my donor.

When the social worker told me my donor was female and between the ages of eighteen and twenty-four, I couldn’t stop the immediate cascade—no, the deluge—of tears. My own children were that same age.

Who was I to take a heart? To take life, opportunity, learning, and growth from someone so young?

I still haven’t found an answer.

Nine months after my transplant, I wrote a letter and sent it to my social worker, hoping it would eventually reach my donor’s family. I didn’t need a response; I simply wanted to say thank you. It felt like the right thing to do.

Then, the following February—ironically, on the very day I learned my thyroid cancer had returned—I received a letter in return. It was from my donor’s mother.

My donor was Ella.

She was a medical assistant and a nursing student. A dancer. A lover of music. She and her mother were very close. Precious.

There’s something that happens when someone comes close to dying—or, in my case, receives a heart transplant. You feel a responsibility to live an extraordinary life, to somehow make the second chance, the gift of an organ, worth it. I’ve wrestled with this more than I care to admit.

I don’t want to go back to college and complete a nursing degree in her honor. I don’t feel healthy enough to run a marathon or climb a famous fourteen-thousand-foot peak. Maybe someday I’ll create a charitable trust or do something meaningful in the realm of organ donation.

But for now—for today—I will walk five miles.

I will breathe in the crisp autumn air and feel the steady rhythm of this 21-year-old heart. And that will be enough.