What I Wish I Knew Then
I can still feel it—how cold that ICU room was. The kind of cold that settles into your bones and doesn’t leave, no matter how many blankets you pile on. Alarms blared through the night, his heart rate spiking, his breathing too fast, his fever rising again. After ten days in the trauma ICU, Luke’s body was fighting battles on every front—severe pneumonia, stomach issues, a dangerously high respiratory rate, and no clear signs of rest or relief.
I Stayed Because I Had To
I barely left his side. Two, maybe three hours total in a day. He was starting to show signs of waking up as we weaned off the sedation, and I couldn’t bear the thought of him opening his eyes to an empty room. So I stayed. I stayed because I needed to. I stayed because I didn’t know what else to do. I stayed because I was terrified he might not make it through the night.
I’ve never felt more scared. More helpless. More desperate. At the end of myself, and still trying to hold it all together.
What I Wish She Knew
And if I could go back to her—the woman curled up in that chair, heart breaking silently—I’d wrap her in the biggest hug and whisper what I wish she knew.
I wish you knew that you were doing enough. Even in your silence. Even in your stillness. Even when you couldn’t fix anything or make it better. Your presence was the offering—and it mattered more than you’ll ever fully understand.
I wish you knew that the fear wouldn’t always feel this loud. That you’d breathe easier again. That your body would stop bracing for bad news every time rounds made their way to Luke’s hospital room or a nurse walked in.
I wish you knew that he’d be accepted into one of the most world-renowned programs for inpatient brain injury rehabilitation. That the Shepherd Center in Atlanta would open its doors to your boy, and that a team of experts would fight for his recovery with you.
I wish you knew that thousands of people would come alongside you—many you’d never even met—to help carry the emotional, mental, financial, and practical weight of what you were holding. That you wouldn’t be alone, even when it felt like no one else could understand.
I wish you knew that your deep, silent cries in the dark—the ones that could barely form words—were heard. That the whispered “Please, God, please,” over and over again, would not go unanswered.
I wish you knew that Luke would drive again. That seven months later, he’d turn the key, pull out of the driveway, and head to school with quiet confidence. That you’d watch him go, heart racing—but full of awe.
I wish you knew that in just nine more days, he would recognize your face for the first time. That his first words—mouthed through exhaustion and healing—would be lyrics from a John Mayer song you had been singing to him softly in the middle of the night. That in a couple of months, he would walk again.
I wish you knew that the miracle you were too afraid to imagine was already unfolding—one small, impossible moment at a time.
If You’re In Your Own ICU Room
Maybe you’re in your own version of that freezing ICU room.
Maybe it’s not your child laying in a hospital bed—but it’s something else that’s left you scared, exhausted, and bracing for the next wave of bad news. Maybe you’re holding on by a thread, whispering your own version of “Please, God, please,” and wondering if anyone sees you.
If that’s where you are right now, I want you to know—you’re not alone. And you don’t have to have it all together to be faithful or brave.
You may not see it yet, but miracles are already unfolding in the quiet, unseen places. Healing is happening in ways you can’t feel. Support is on its way. And the light that feels impossibly far off? It’s closer than it seems.
Keep going. Breathe. Cry. Ask for help. Sit in silence. Sing in the dark if you have to. You don’t have to rush your way through this. You’re allowed to be human here.
Held in the Hardest Moments
Through it all, I was never alone. And you aren’t either.
I believe God was closer than the air around me—present in every tear, every breath, every desperate prayer. Even when my faith felt like a whisper, I trusted that His love was holding Luke, and holding me, too. That quiet trust carried me when I couldn’t carry myself.
Maybe your faith looks different. Maybe you call that presence by another name. But I believe there is something greater—someone greater—who walks with us through the darkest valleys. Who hears even the smallest cries. Who holds space for our fear and meets us with love.
I wish I could go back and sit beside her—my past self—and tell her all of this. That the pain wouldn’t last forever. That light would return. That healing would come in slow, sacred pieces. That she wasn’t alone.
But I can’t go back. So I’ll keep telling the story. I’ll keep sharing what I’ve learned in the hopes that it helps someone else breathe a little easier in their own waiting room.
A Gentle Invitation
If anything in this story echoed something inside you, know that you’re seen. You’re not the only one walking through the dark—and you’re not walking alone. This is just one part of our story, but maybe it’s a part of yours too. If it is, I hope you carry these words with you, the way I carry the grace that got us through.
Keep shining,
