April 6, 2025. The day I almost left this earth.
The truth is, the illness didn’t arrive dramatically. It didn’t feel like a warning shot or a buildup toward
catastrophe. It came quietly — the way real life often does — right in the middle of a life that was
already full.
I was just living.
There were challenges, yes. Big ones. There were also deep joys. I had just come off one of the most
meaningful moments of my life: the wedding of my beautiful daughter, Payton.
I raised her mostly on my own. I played both roles — mom and dad, provider and parent. It was never
easy. It was often overwhelming. And it was always worth it.
A few weeks before the wedding, Payton told me she had a question for me.
She asked if I would do the father-daughter dance with her.
At first, I said no. I told her I would feel uncomfortable. I’m not a great dancer. It felt like a break from
tradition. But she really wanted this. She believed it mattered. And after thinking about it — and praying
about it — something settled in me.
It felt right.
The song she chose was I Hope You Dance by Lee Ann Womack –
“ I hope you never lose your sense of wonder
You get your fill to eat but always keep that hunger
May you never take one single breath for granted
God forbid love ever leave you empty-handed
I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean
Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens
Promise me that you’ll give faith a fighting chance
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance – I hope you dance…”
That song was never just about dancing.
It was about resilience.
About choosing light when things aren’t easy.
About continuing to move even when life demands more than feels fair.
I always encouraged her to shine — to keep dancing through difficulty.
That moment on the dance floor felt like coming full circle. The people in that room knew what it
represented. Friends and family who had watched the years unfold. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house.
And then life shifted.
The day we traveled home from the destination wedding, I received a call from my mom’s nurse. My
mom wasn’t well. She had a fever and wasn’t getting out of bed. When I arrived at her apartment she
was disoriented and didn’t recognize who I was.
Though she ended up being okay, it shook me.
Within a week, I developed a fever myself. I assumed it was the flu. After seven days, I went to the
doctor. I was told to hydrate and rest.
But twenty days later, the fever was still there.
On the morning of April 6, as I was preparing to drive in for another IV therapy appointment, I said to my
husband Graham, “Something’s not right. I think we’re putting a bandage on something serious. It’s time
to go to the hospital.”
They took one look at me in the ER and rushed me back.
What I didn’t know — and learned quickly through a battery of tests — was that my organs were
shutting down.
Within an hour, they were preparing blood transfusions and life-saving intervention. Somehow, I had
contracted a severe and rare condition called HLH (Hemophagocytic Lymphohistiocytosis), where the
body’s immune system attacks itself — a condition many don’t survive. Fortunately with the exceptional
care of my medical team and the power of heavy steroids I began to slowly stabilize.
I spent two long weeks in the hospital.
When I came home, I didn’t return to my life.
HLH is known for attacking the body by stripping muscle and weight. I lost thirty pounds I didn’t need to
lose. I couldn’t walk unsupported.
I had to begin again.
The Shift
Somewhere in the middle of the year, something shifted.
Not dramatically.
No revelation.
No stunning breakthrough.
Just a change in current.
I noticed I was no longer narrating my pain in order to survive it. I wasn’t rehearsing explanations. I
wasn’t bracing for the next hit.
I was listening.
To my body — before my mind tried to translate.
To fatigue — without getting frustrated.
To discomfort — without rushing to fix it.
This is where rebuilding actually began.
Not with answers, but with acceptance.
With pauses. With deep surrender.
With the understanding that peace is not earned by suffering well.
It’s chosen by telling the truth sooner.
That realization alone changed everything.
For much of my life, I believed that growth came from pressure — that excellence was forged by
stretching, pushing, proving. And while there is truth in that, there is also danger.
Because pressure without permission becomes erosion.
My body knew that before I did.
There’s a moment I keep returning to — leaving the hospital after weeks inside. The noise. The beeping.
The constant assessment.
As we checked out, a young fawn stood on the lawn near the entrance.
Out of place.
Still.
Unbothered by the chaos around it.
Vulnerable, yet calm.
I don’t believe that was coincidence.
That image stayed with me because it mirrored exactly what I was learning: new beginnings don’t
always arrive armored. Sometimes they arrive exposed, quiet, unsure — and alive anyway.
My doctors later told me something that continues to echo: the strength of my foundation mattered.
Years of caring for my physical and mental health made a difference in my ability to survive something
that could have taken me.
That mattered.
But what mattered more was what followed.
Because survival teaches you what you can endure.
Healing teaches you how you want to live.
Carrying Forward
I’m not healed in the way people like to package healing.
I’m learning how to carry what didn’t disappear.
The aches and pains from heavy steroids and fatigued adrenals have found their proper place. They no
longer run the room.
I don’t need a finish line to move forward.
I don’t need resolution to be present.
I only need to stay here.
April 6 didn’t take me.
But it changed how I stand in the world.
What About You?
As leaders, we’re good at reading other people’s stories and extracting lessons.
We’re less practiced at sitting still long enough to hear our own.
A new year has a way of inviting reinvention. But before you rush to set goals, map strategy, or declare
what’s next, I want to ask something simpler — and far more consequential:
Where are you actually starting from?
Not where you think you should be.
Not where your calendar says you’re headed.
But where you are, right now — in your body, your spirit, your leadership, your life.
Because every meaningful beginning tells the truth about its starting point.
So as this year opens in front of you, here are a few invitations — not assignments. Questions meant to
be held, not hurried.
- What has your body been trying to tell you that your productivity has drowned out?
- Where have you been performing strength instead of practicing honesty?
- What pressure are you carrying that you never consciously agreed to?
- What would change if you listened sooner instead of pushing longer?
- What does healing look like for you — not as an outcome, but as a way of living?
- If presence mattered more than performance this year, what would you do differently?
- What are you ready to stop earning?
- If this year is about becoming more integrated — not more impressive — what needs
your attention first?
There is no rush to answer these questions.
Leadership doesn’t demand immediacy.
It requires alignment.
Beginning Again
As I step into this new year, I’m not bringing pressure or performance with me.
I’m bringing presence. I’m committing to a beautiful pace.
Still here.
Still healing.
Still becoming.
And that is enough.