It’s all about perspective.

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Life has changed in ways you never could’ve imagined. Your plans and expectations for the future may look completely different now — but that doesn’t mean your new path can’t be full, beautiful, and amazing in ways you never thought possible.

Through this journey, I’ve learned that the times I’ve hurt the most have often been the moments when I tried hardest to keep things light. (By the way, the quote in blue above — that’s referring to mental toughness.)

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Changing perspective is one of the hardest parts of this battle. The things I once did effortlessly — like showering — became major challenges. But instead of focusing on the frustration, I’ve learned to see the little things as milestones and blessings. It’s easier said than done, but it’s real.

Do small things for yourself whenever you can — as a treat and a reminder that progress, no matter how small, matters. Restoring health is the hardest job I’ve ever had, but the reward is far sweeter than anything I could imagine.

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There are times it feels like there’s no light at the end of the tunnel. But trust me — it’s there. Sometimes you just have to walk around the obstacle that’s blocking your view.

Even when it feels like you’ve got nothing left, remember the most powerful weapon you still hold: THE WILL TO WIN.

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At the end of 2014, after my second SOT, my health declined rapidly. I could feel deep inside that something was going wrong. I went to the ER, got a couple bags of IV fluids, and was sent home. Fifteen hours later, I was back — weaker and barely able to speak. I downloaded an app on my phone to help me communicate, typing out my symptoms one by one.

At that point, I was running purely on rage. I was furious — why was this happening after my parents had spent thousands on treatment? After years of fighting, detoxing, and clawing toward recovery?

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I played my list of symptoms for the ER receptionist. She looked at me and asked, “Are you having all these symptoms right now? Which ones are current?”

I rolled my eyes at my mom, replayed the same list, and within minutes they took me in — heart-related symptoms and all. Every breath felt like a thousand needles in my lungs. My mind raced: Which idiot are they going to send in here this time?

As I lay there struggling to breathe, I reached a crossroads — force my body to keep fighting or let go and trust God to take me peacefully. I prayed:

“Lord, I will fight for the life You gave me until You decide my time is over. But if that time is now, please be gracious and lead me to peace.”

Less than a minute later, in walked my favorite ER doctor — Dr. Joseph Dinglawson. The moment I saw him, I felt relief. He’d helped me before, and I knew I was in good hands. He got to work immediately, and slowly, the relief trickled in.

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Even after stabilizing, I had no strength to speak. I drifted in and out while nurses asked my parents questions — including the one I dreaded most:

“Do you want to sign the DNR?”

I wanted to yell, Don’t ask them that — ask me! But I couldn’t. My mom broke down crying, and everything faded to black again.

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For several days, my body hovered between surviving and slipping away. When I finally looked in the mirror four days later, I hardly recognized myself — my skin was gray, my face wrinkled with exhaustion. But I was alive.

After days in the hospital — and a return trip a week later — it took months to feel any real recovery from that flare.

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Now, years later, I’m stronger, still healing, and sharing one of my hardest battles with you for one reason: so you’ll know that there is always

HOPE.