Still here. Still fighting. Still writing.

"Now then stand still and see this great thing the Lord is about to do right before your eyes." 1

Samuel 12:16

It’s Been a While…

Wow. It’s been over a year since I’ve written a blog post.

I’m still here—just took a step back as life got more than busy. But you know what? I’ve missed writing more than I realized. I forgot how much it fills my soul. Writing has always been my way of processing, expressing, and even healing. It’s my solace… and honestly, I need it.

This past year has been full of so many challenges and changes, I don’t even know where to begin. I’ve always embracedchange—I’ve even encouraged others to seek it out. As a former director of nursing, I used to preach the power of change. I believed (and still do) that there’s so much to learn when we step outside our comfort zones.

It’s easy to stay in a routine. It’s familiar. It’s safe. It feels manageable.

But change? Change can be messy. It’s the unknown. It can feel deeply uncomfortable.

And yet, for as long as I can remember, I’ve been a risk-taker, an adventure-seeker—someone who chooses growth even when it feels hard. That hasn’t changed. Though I’ll admit, the older I get, the more I feel the tension between craving stability and chasing growth. But I still choose to lean in.

I’m back. Not because everything is calm or figured out—but because writing helps me make sense of it all. And I think it’s time I start again.

As you may know, this past year brought some big changes to our family. Our baby girl—who’s not so much a baby anymore—graduated from high school in May.

How can that even be?

Honestly, time is a thief. And oh, how I wish I could rewind the clock—just to soak it all in a little more. To fully embrace those small, fleeting moments. To let them consume me, imprint themselves on my memory so deeply they’d never fade. But no matter how hard I tried, time kept moving. And despite my valiant efforts to slow it down, I couldn’t.

I watched my sweet girl walk across that stage and accept her high school diploma. I was overwhelmed with pride—but also something more.

I saw them.

There on her shoulders, just behind her… angelic figures, walking every step with her. I didn’t say a word to anyone in that moment, but I saw them clearly. And I smiled.

I know exactly who they were.

Her twin brother. Her Grandpa John.

They’ve always been her angels—watching over her, loving her, protecting her when her dad and I couldn’t be right there. That moment reminded me: she’s never alone. None of us are.

Kalli hasn’t had an easy path in life.

She’s faced more challenges than most—physically, emotionally, intellectually. There have been many hard days, but through it all, we’ve encouraged her, pushed her, and stood by her side. We’ve always believed in her strength, even when the odds felt overwhelming.

When we were told she might never have a voice, we smiled and kept going. And now? She talks more than I do—and that is saying a lot!

Doctors warned us that the brain hemorrhages, the countless resuscitations, and the trauma she endured as a tiny preemie in the NICU would likely lead to lifelong physical and intellectual difficulties. We listened. We took in every word. And then we did what we’ve always done—we pushed through. We gave her every opportunity to become the very best version of herself.

And she has.

Kalli even played volleyball for a while in school. It wasn’t always easy—she struggled—but she loved it. Not because she was a star athlete, but because she was part of the team. And that’s all she’s ever really wanted: to belong. To be seen. To feel “normal,” in the way so many take for granted.

When she stopped playing, she still showed up. Game after game, cheering louder than anyone in the gym. She might not have been on the court anymore, but she was still part of the team. Always loud. Always proud. Always showing up—with her full heart.

She didn’t stop there.

She cheered for basketball. She cheered for football. She cheered for wrestling. And when she couldn’t attend in person, she streamed the games from her phone or watched on TV—cheering just as loudly from our living room as if she were sitting in the front row.

Her enthusiasm is unmatched. Her heart? Even bigger.

She doesn’t just show up—she shows up fully. With joy, with love, with this deep desire to support others. That’s who Kalli is. That’s who she’s always been.

In early February of this past year, we went through one of the scariest experiences we’ve had in a long time with Kalli.

She hadn’t been feeling well. Mark and I had gone to the lake to move a few things, and when we got home, I immediately noticed something was off. Kalli was sitting upright on the couch, but her face was blank. Her skin was slightly ashen, and her breathing was loud—labored and heavy.

I took one look at her, and I knew.

It had been years since I’d seen that look, but I recognized it instantly. “She has pneumonia,” I told Mark. He looked at her and asked how I could be so sure. My answer? Intuition. A mother’s instinct. A nurse’s gut.

I checked her vitals—her oxygen was in the low 80s, and her heart rate was in the high 100s. I gave her a nebulizer treatment right away, hoping she would respond. Her oxygen came up slightly, to around 85 (normal is over 92), but it wasn’t enough.

We grabbed the portable nebulizer and pulse oximeter and rushed to the ER in Jamestown. I monitored her oxygen in the car, watching every number.

The moment we arrived at the hospital, a team of doctors, nurses, and respiratory therapists swarmed her room. They immediately tried to put her on BiPAP. My heart dropped—I hadn’t seen her on a BiPAP since she was a baby in the NICU.

Kalli was fighting it. She couldn’t breathe. They gave her Ativan to calm her, but her oxygen saturation sank into the 70s, her heart rate climbed to around 200, and her respiratory rate was over 80 breaths per minute.

As a nurse, I knew—this couldn’t go on for long.

They moved us to a larger room. Mark turned to me and asked, “Do they just want us to be more comfortable?” I looked at him and said, “No. She’s very sick. They need more space because I believe they’re preparing to intubate her.”

We locked eyes, and the fear was overwhelming. It was as if every memory of Kalli being intubated as a baby came crashing back at once. The trauma, the helplessness—it all resurfaced.

I asked what we could do to avoid intubation, and they said the only chance was if she calmed down enough to tolerate the BiPAP. The Ativan finally kicked in, and Mark and I gently talked her through it, convincing her to keep the mask on.

It felt like an eternity, but she stabilized.

Her heart rate dropped to the 120s—still high, but better. Her breathing slowed to the low 20s. Her oxygen came up to 90%. It was enough. Enough to avoid intubation. Enough to avoid a transfer to a larger hospital.

She was admitted to JRMC and stayed for several nights, diagnosed with pneumonia and Influenza A.

What a terrifying time—but once again, there was Kalli, fighting with everything she had.

She showed us—all of us—that she’s a fighter through and through. She always has been.

By the grace of God, and with that same relentless spirit she’s always carried, Kalli recovered from this illness with no lasting effects. The doctors called her recovery nothing short of miraculous.

But deep down, I already knew.

I knew she had two very special angels on her shoulders… and an army of prayers lifting her up. Her twin brother. Her Grandpa John. They’ve never stopped watching over her.

And she made it.

She walked across that stage and picked up her high school diploma—a moment many believed might never come. But it did. And it was everything.

It’s a moment we’ll hold tightly forever, etched into our hearts.

So now the question everyone seems to ask: What’s next for Kalli?Will she go to college?

The answer is—probably not. College isn’t a realistic path for Kalli, and that’s okay. Because she’s already discovering her purpose.

Kalli has found a passion for child care. She connects with children in a way that’s hard to explain—but easy to see. They get her. And she gets them.

Right now, she’s helping care for her niece and nephew, Paislee and Gunnar, while Justine works and pursues her RN degree. Watching Kalli pour into these little lives has been such a gift. She’s so gentle, so engaged, and so full of love.

When Justine’s schedule settles down a bit (ha! ha!—if that ever happens), Kalli plans to work at a local daycare. I’ve even encouraged her to try something bold—like moving to Florida with her sister Bailee, for a fresh start—but she doesn’t want to be far from Paislee, Gunnar, or from Mark and me. And you know what? That’s okay, too.

She doesn’t have to follow anyone else’s version of success. Kalli’s journey is her own—and it’s already unfolding in the most beautiful way.

We’ll see what life brings her.

And no matter what, we’ll be right here… cheering her on. Always.

Still here. Still fighting. Still writing.

This past year reminded me of something I’d forgotten: that writing is how I process life’s hardest and most beautiful moments. Kalli’s story isn’t just hers—it’s woven into all of us who’ve walked with her.

So yes, I’m still here. And I’m writing again.

Thanks for being here too. 💛