Climbing Out, One Step at a Time

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The Fight I Didn’t Know I Had In Me

On June 8, 2020, I checked into the hospital for what was supposed to be a routine procedure. It was a simple D&C, a way to close the chapter on a miscarriage that had already left me feeling hollow. But as I lay in that cold, sterile room, things went terribly wrong. I lost a massive amount of blood—two liters, they later told me—and for a brief, terrifying moment, my heart stopped. They had to bring me back. I don’t remember all the details. I remember the cold of the table, the panic in my chest as I couldn’t breathe, and the voices around me turning frantic. I remember waking up in the ICU, still pale and shaken, realizing just how close I’d come to not going home to my son. Two days later, I was discharged with an iron prescription and a deep ache in my bones—a reminder of how fragile life really is. Even now, years later, I still feel the weight of that day. It’s something I carry with me, quietly woven into my story. I’m sharing this not to dwell on the medical details,...

The Anniversary I Never Wanted 3.14

The Anniversary I Never Wanted March 14. Three years ago today, I walked into my two-week postpartum visit expecting a routine checkup. I thought I’d hear that I was healing well, maybe get some advice on balancing recovery with life as a mom of two. Instead, I was blindsided. My blood pressure was dangerously high. So high that the doctor refused to let me leave the office without promising to go straight to the hospital. I didn’t get to go home, pack a bag, or prepare myself for what was coming—I was just sent. Alone. Whether it was because of the pandemic, the time of year, or just bad luck, I felt completely isolated. That’s what I remember most—being alone. Sitting in that hospital bed, hooked up to monitors, processing the fact that my body was still betraying me. I had already been through so much, and now, instead of healing, I was back in a place I never wanted to be. John was home taking care of our newborn, Theresa, and our three-year-old son, John. Our family stepped in to ...

Holding It Together When You're Falling Apart

Yesterday, I woke up at 7:30. And yesterday, someone I love had a biopsy. That’s all I want to say about that part. The details don’t really matter—not here, not now. What matters is what came after. Because nobody talks about this part. Nobody talks about what it’s like to function when you’re terrified. What it’s like to go through the motions—packing lunches, tying shoes, driving to school—while carrying the weight of uncertainty. Nobody talks about what it’s like to hold space for someone else’s pain while barely having space for your own. I have PTSD. It clings to me, sneaking into the quiet moments, showing up uninvited. And yet, life doesn’t pause. There are still responsibilities, routines, and people who need me. So I did what I always do. I got up. I got the kids ready. I got them to school. I have help, and I am grateful for that. But even with help, the fear is still there. The waiting is still there. The exhaustion of trying not to react to every trigger, of trying to be s...

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