I’ve been quiet for a long time.
Not because life slowed down — but because it didn’t.
The last two years tested me on every level: emotionally, physically, and spiritually. Loss of independence. Pain that lingered. Systems that broke down when I needed them most. Silence wasn’t a choice so much as a survival response. I was living in recovery mode — one day at a time, often one hour at a time.
In early 2024, life felt expansive again. We were settling into the small, beautiful community of Northport, and I had returned for a second season as a park ranger. I worked long days, kept pace with rangers half my age, and did everything from cleaning cabins to hauling firewood using my custom socket and a 1964 Mustang hood bumper.
For the first time in over a decade, I felt strong.
Capable.
Alive.
By fall, my body began to whisper that something wasn’t right. Weakness in my hand. Increasing wrist instability. I ignored it, assuming it was the work. At a routine follow-up, what was expected to be a simple hardware removal turned into a cascade of events that would define the year ahead.
A fracture that never healed.
Another surgery.
Weeks with no hands.
Months of limitation.
At the same time, my husband and I were caring for his father as his health declined. Grief layered itself quietly over recovery. I tried to keep my brave face on, but inside, the darkness grew loud. I depended on my husband and children in ways that challenged everything I believed about independence and strength.
We lost my father-in-law peacefully in January. Shortly after, we said goodbye to our dog Dominiak — my constant companion through some of my hardest years. The house felt unbearably quiet. The absence was physical.
Spring brought hard decisions. My wrist continued to deteriorate. Insurance denied coverage for a myoelectric prosthetic, labeling it “not medically necessary.” That sentence still stings. Loss of independence, compounded by bureaucracy, can turn determination into bitterness if you let it.
Somewhere in that space, joy found its way back in — not dramatically, but persistently. A small rescue dog named Bert came home with us and reminded me what unconditional love looks like in motion. And then, unexpectedly, I learned I was going to be a grandma — BGE, Best Grandma Ever. That news became a quiet north star.
Summer was still.
Fall brought another surgery.
More weeks without arms.
More waiting.
The prosthetic approval came — and then time ran out. As of today, the prosthetic is still a work in progress.
But here’s what is also true.
My wrist is healing — impressively so.
Jeff’s heart has fully recovered.
I am still here. Still curious. Still building.
I’ve had a lot of time to reflect — maybe stew — and what I know now is this: the years of therapy, loss, resilience, family legacy, and sheer stubbornness have shaped me into someone I recognize again.
A wife.
A mom.
A BGE.
A woman still willing to redesign the game when the rules don’t work.
This year’s motto is simple and hard-earned:
Love the self. Spread the love.
I’m back — not because everything is resolved, but because it’s still unfolding.
And I want to share what comes next.
science 🖤 art 🖤 transhumeral 