07/11/2026
Love Finds Answers – Part 2: The Battle No One Sees 💜
Everyone celebrated when I survived.
And believe me—I did too.
But survival was only the beginning.
No one prepares you for what comes after you’ve looked death in the face. No one tells you that you can be overwhelmingly grateful to be alive while simultaneously grieving the life and the body you once knew.
Every morning, I wake up wondering what my body will bring today.
Will I be able to eat?
Will I keep anything down?
Will today be another day of vomiting bile until my stomach is empty and my body is shaking from exhaustion?
The bile…it’s relentless.
It’s bitter. It burns. It leaves my throat raw, my stomach cramping, and my entire body aching. There are moments when I’m vomiting with nothing left in my stomach except bile, and I wonder how something invisible to others can hurt so deeply.
Then there’s gastroparesis.
People hear the name, but they don’t see what it steals.
It steals comfort.
It steals energy.
It steals the simple freedom of trusting your own body.
Some days my stomach feels like it’s filled with bricks. Other days it twists and cramps until I can barely stand upright. I find myself praying for relief from something most people never have to think about.
As if that wasn’t enough, my days are filled with blood sugar crashes that leave me weak and confused, POTS episodes that make my heart race and the room spin, and overwhelming fatigue that reaches into my bones.
And just when I think I’ve made it through one battle…
Another begins.
Months after everything I endured with my MALS surgery, I’ve found myself facing breast masses, unexpected ni**le leakage, biopsies, more imaging, more appointments, and more follow-up visits. Every phone call, every scan, every procedure comes with the same quiet fear:
What are they going to find this time?
It’s emotionally exhausting to keep preparing yourself for answers you pray you’ll never hear.
Living this way changes you.
You stop planning too far ahead because you’ve learned that life can change with one phone call.
You learn to celebrate good test results because you know how precious they are.
You learn to smile through pain because your children are watching.
You learn that courage isn’t the absence of fear—it’s choosing to keep going while carrying it.
There are days my body hurts so deeply that I don’t know how I keep moving.
But then I hear my children laugh.
I feel their hugs.
I watch them play.
I listen to their little voices call, “Mom.”
And suddenly, every painful step becomes worth taking.
I don’t know what tomorrow holds.
I don’t know what my next appointment, my next scan, or my next surgery may bring.
There are moments when that uncertainty feels overwhelming.
But it has also taught me something beautiful.
It has taught me to treasure ordinary moments.
To soak in every hug a little longer.
To laugh a little louder.
To hold my babies a little tighter.
To appreciate every sunrise, every bedtime story, every messy kitchen, every “I love you,” because none of us are promised tomorrow.
Pain has changed my body.
But it has also changed my heart.
It has taught me gratitude in places I never expected to find it.
I am still hurting.
I am still healing.
I am still afraid sometimes.
But I am also still here.
And that is a gift I will never take for granted.
Thank you to every person who continues to pray for me, encourage me, and walk beside me through this journey. Your kindness reminds me that even on the hardest days, hope still exists.
If my story reaches even one person who feels alone in their own battle, then every difficult chapter has a purpose.
God has carried me this far.
And I trust He will carry me through whatever comes next.
💜 One day. One prayer. One miracle at a time.
