There are moments that split your life into before and after.
Not cleanly. Not politely. Just… permanently.
For me, one of those moments happened in a hospital room where the light never quite turns off and time stops behaving like time. My child was small in a way that felt unbearable. Too still. Surrounded by machines doing work no one should have to explain to a parent.
The first transplant was terrifying.
The second was devastating.
By the third, fear had changed shape.
It didn’t get smaller.
It got quieter and heavier.
The Kind of Waiting That Rewrites You
People talk about waiting like it’s passive. Like you’re just killing time until something happens.
Hospital waiting is different.
It’s active. Vigilant. Exhausting.
You’re constantly bracing, reading monitors, watching expressions, and listening for changes in tone from medical staff. Your body stays tense for days, weeks, months, because relaxing feels irresponsible.
I learned how to live inside that tension.
Not heroically. Not gracefully.
Just… consistently.
When Fear Becomes Routine
The hardest part wasn’t the emergencies. It was the long stretches in between.
The labs. The setbacks. The moments where progress stalled or reversed. The conversation with the medical team informing your they are doing all they can, but it’s up to your kid and the higher power. The way hope learned to keep its voice low so it wouldn’t tempt fate.
After a while, fear stops announcing itself. It just moves in.
It becomes part of your posture.
Your breathing.
Your baseline.
And yet, you still have to function.
You still have to show up.
Still make decisions.
Still hold space for your child without letting your fear drown them.
That kind of endurance isn’t dramatic.
It’s relentless.
What Control Looks Like When You Have None
There’s a brutal lesson you learn when your child’s life depends on things completely outside your control.
You stop pretending.
You can’t positive-think your way through organ failure. You can’t manifest better numbers. You can’t out-work biology.
What you can do is narrow your focus.
I learned how to control what was actually mine:
- Being present
- Asking questions
- Advocating clearly
- Regulating my own nervous system enough not to collapse
Everything else had to be released, whether I liked it or not.
That lesson stayed with me.
How the Body Remembers Even When the Mind Moves On
Even after the surgeries were over, my body didn’t immediately get the memo.
I startled easily.
I slept lightly.
I scanned rooms without realizing it.
Trauma doesn’t always show up as memories. Sometimes it manifests as hyper-awareness, your system remaining alert long after the threat has passed.
That’s when I started seeking grounding in a more deliberate way. Not distraction. Not escape.
Because all those years, trauma still shows up in more subtle ways, and grounding becomes a necessity.
Where Fire and Making Entered the Story
Working with fire and wood didn’t come from a place of wanting to make something beautiful. I used to crochet – it was my primary outlet because I was quick with it. It was easy to crochet a hat in under an hour. Made a mistake? No sweat, just frog the thing and start over.
But pyrography? It requires more from me.
Burning wood required me to slow my breath. To steady my hands. To accept that I couldn’t rush the process without consequences.
Fire punished panic.
It rewarded presence.
For someone whose nervous system had spent years on high alert, that mattered more than I can easily explain.
Making didn’t erase what I’d lived through, but it gave my body a new reference point. A place to practice steadiness without vigilance.
The Quiet Strength My Child Taught Me
Watching my child endure what they did reshaped my definition of courage.
It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t inspirational in the way people like to package survival stories.
It was stubborn. Matter-of-fact. Unshowy.
They didn’t ask why this was happening. They focused on what came next. On healing. On living.
That kind of resilience, so small on the outside, so immense on the inside, changed how I approach everything. I haven’t had a case of the Mondays since November 2008.
How This Lives Inside My Work
My work carries a deep respect for fragility.
I don’t force materials. I don’t override resistance. I don’t rush processes that need time to integrate.
Wood teaches you this quickly: push too hard, and it burns too deep. Ignore the grain, and it cracks.
After living through three transplants, I understand the cost of forcing systems past their limits.
My work reflects that understanding:
- Gentle pressure instead of brute force
- Patience instead of urgency
- Depth instead of polish
Every piece is shaped by the knowledge that survival is not about speed, it’s about care.
What Endurance Really Looks Like
Endurance isn’t constant strength.
It’s adjusting when you’re tired.
It’s staying present when you want to dissociate.
It’s continuing without pretending it’s easy.
Watching my child survive taught me that endurance is quiet, repetitive, and deeply human.
A Quiet Invitation
If you’ve lived through something that taught your nervous system to stay on guard.
If you’re strong in ways you didn’t ask to become.
If you’re drawn to work that feels steady rather than sharp.
This might be for you.
Not as a reminder of what you survived.
But as a place to rest your attention.
Three liver transplants changed my understanding of time, fear, and strength.
They taught me that survival isn’t a moment; it’s a practice. One that continues long after the crisis passes.
I didn’t come out of that season untouched.
I came out attentive.
And everything I make carries that attention forward, not as a story of hardship, but as proof that care, practiced patiently, can hold more than we think.
Leave a Reply