Life has a way of testing us, often when we least expect it. Recently, I faced one of those tests head-on after a health scare landed me in the hospital for five days. What began as chest pain and difficulty breathing quickly became a series of blood tests, scans, and worry. Each day I hoped for answers, clinging to the idea that a diagnosis would somehow bring relief.
Eventually, an echocardiogram revealed inflammation in the lining of my heart. Tests also pointed to a kidney issue, though the cause remains unclear. Not knowing what triggered this was the most unsettling part. The uncertainty and waiting took a toll, on my emotions, my energy, and my spirit.
The doctors have started me on medication, and while there is hope for recovery, they’ve warned it could take up to three months to fully heal. In the meantime, I try to do a little more each day, allowing myself grace as I slowly rebuild. I keep wondering if there’s anything I can do to speed up the healing process, but sometimes, the only real answer is patience.
Through it all, I’ve been reminded of the power of small comforts. I had every intention of relying on coping skills I’ve learned over the years, but during this season, I’ve found myself leaning most into nature. Whether it’s walking a quiet trail, sitting by the ocean, or simply watching the world through my window, nature has become a balm for my weary mind and body.
Other moments of peace come through connection and simple joys, reading a good book, watching a movie, and cuddling with my cat, Sweetie. Her unconditional love has been an anchor.
Just as I was starting to find some stability, I received heartbreaking news: my dear friend Jeannie passed away after a brave battle with colon cancer. Jeannie went through her treatments with strength, supported every step of the way by her loving husband, Bob. Her kindness, joy for life, and love for nature and family shone through in everything she did, from baking contests to beach walks and time with her grandchildren.
I miss her deeply. Her comforting voice and warm presence are impossible to replace. I often catch myself reaching for my phone to call or send her a card, only to remember she’s no longer here. The grief runs deep, but I remind myself she is at peace now. And in that, there is some comfort.
As I navigate both personal healing and the pain of loss, I hold tight to the tools that help: nature, love, memory, and presence. Some days are heavy. Others are filled with small progress. Through it all, I’m learning that healing, whether physical or emotional, comes not in leaps, but in quiet, steady steps.