Team Luke

09/12/2025

Update: Thank you all so much for the love and prayers for my sweet Luke. I want to gently share that this video is from when he was 9 months old during one of his EEG tests. Luke passed away 4 years ago, but I’m grateful his little light is still touching so many hearts. 💙

Isn’t he just the cutest? This was one of many of his EEG test. He was such a trooper! Love and miss him always!

09/12/2025

Gods purpose in our life and where he is directing us. I know there is a bigger plan for my life than I could ever even imagine! This reel is Long story short of our story. Please share so we can get our story out there and help others in the middle of those dark places.

God knows what he’s doing!

08/12/2025

God truly is good! Please help me get my story out there so I can help others! Share, comment and like.
Thank you everyone!

07/12/2025

After Josh’s surgery and the whirlwind of recovery, we sat down with the neurosurgeon for our follow-up appointment.
�This was the moment we had been both anticipating and dreading—the moment where our future, our hopes, and the family we dreamed of would collide with medical reality.

We told him the truth:�We wanted kids. We had always wanted kids. And now, with everything so uncertain, we didn’t know what to do.
He listened, paused thoughtfully, and then laid out our options with a calmness that somehow steadied us.

Option one: bank Josh’s s***m before treatment.
�Option two: try for a baby right away—before chemo, before radiation, before anything could affect his fertility.

It felt surreal, sitting in a sterile exam room, hearing words like s***m banking and chemo and baby in the same sentence. We were so young. Newly married. Still processing the fact that someone had literally been inside his brain just days earlier.

Josh looked at me.�I looked at him.�And without even fully understanding how big the decision was—we chose to try naturally.
It felt like a blessing.�It felt like hope.�
But it also came with a weight I carried quietly:�What if Josh got worse? What if I ended up raising a child without him? What if our dream came with a cost we weren’t ready to face?

I never said those fears out loud, but they were there—hiding in the corners of my heart even as we stepped forward in faith.

A short time later, we met with the oncologist to go over the next phase of Josh’s care. We walked in ready to hear the plan: chemo, radiation, the whole lineup we had been bracing ourselves for.

But instead, she looked at us with this thoughtful, almost conflicted expression.

And then she said the last thing we expected to hear:
“I’m losing out on money by telling you this, but I don’t want to put you on chemo. I believe another surgeon can get the rest of your tumor without putting your body through all of that.”
We just stared at her.

Chemo was supposed to be the next step.
�We had mentally prepared ourselves for it.
�We had built our expectations around it.�And now she was telling us that someone else might be able to remove the remaining piece surgically—no chemo, no chemicals, no months of devastation to Josh’s body.

It felt like another door was opening… one we didn’t even know existed.

Another thread of grace.�Another sign that we were being carried.
And once again, our story shifted directions in a way we never could have planned ourselves.

04/12/2025

04/12/2025

Still one of our favorite videos of Luke. 😍🥰

03/12/2025

Recovery at my parents’ house was a chapter I never expected to be so hard.
Josh was on so many medications that he felt like a stranger—irritable, short-tempered, demanding. I knew it wasn’t him, but that didn’t make it any less painful to witness.
There were nights I lay awake beside him and wondered,
“What if the surgery really did change him? What if this is our new reality?”
It terrified me in a way I’ve never admitted out loud until now.
But slowly—miraculously—the fog started to lift.
As the meds decreased, glimpses of my real Josh came back. His humor. His gentleness. His steadiness.
And then one morning, it was like the sun broke through.
He was back.
My husband. My best friend. My Josh.
That relief carried us straight into the next part of the journey.
A few days later, we drove back down to UCLA for the follow-up appointment. We walked in hopeful… but left with words that hit heavier than we expected:
chemo. radiation. more treatment.
We were young. Newly married. Just wanting a normal life.
Just wanting healing.
Just wanting a future that didn’t feel so fragile.
And we had dreams—big ones. We wanted to start a family.
So in that little exam room, with fear pressing in on every side, we asked the doctor one of the hardest questions we’ve ever had to ask:
“What does this mean for having children? Are there options… especially before Josh starts treatment?”
It was one of those moments where time slowed down—
where hope and fear collided—
where we realized that life wasn’t going to look the way we planned…
but somehow, God was still in the middle of it all.
More of this part of our story is coming soon.
Thank you for walking through it with us. ❤️

01/12/2025

What came after the surgery was a different kind of fight.
In the moment, it felt like Josh’s recovery was going to stretch on forever.
We were so unbelievably blessed with how he came out of surgery, but the hours and days that followed were still some of the hardest we had walked through up to that point. His pain management was something we had to stay on top of constantly. The swelling, the discomfort, the meds—steroids, antibiotics, multiple kinds of pain medication—his body was trying to heal while also wrestling everything we were putting into it to keep him stable.
We spent three nights in the hospital.
The first one was rough.
The kind of rough that still sits with you years later.
There’s one moment I’ll never forget—although I wish I could.
They were taking Josh for an MRI, rolling his bed from one room to the next. As they pushed him through the doorway, his catheter line got hooked on the door handle. It caught, pulled, and yanked on the most sensitive part of his body. He jolted in pain, already exhausted, already hurting from surgery, and I remember feeling absolutely helpless watching it happen. It was just one more thing layered on top of everything else he was already fighting through.
And then—because sometimes things happen in pairs—when they brought him back to the room and the nurses were settling him in, one of them rushed around the bed and tripped over the same line.
Josh still swears that nurse looked like a witch straight out of a movie.
I will say confidently: she did not.
But in his pain-med fog and the chaos of that moment, that’s exactly how his brain filed her away.
Looking back, we can laugh at that part now—now, when the sting of those days has faded and the gratitude for his recovery sits stronger than the memory of the messiness. But at the time, it felt like we were being hit from every angle. Every hour brought something new to navigate, something new to manage, something new to pray over.
And yet… Josh kept fighting.
He kept pushing through the pain, the swelling, the meds, the setbacks.
Every small improvement felt like a victory.
Those days taught us so much about what resilience really is.
They taught us how deeply love can steady you when everything feels unsteady.
And they were the beginning of learning how to advocate for someone you love—not just emotionally, but physically, practically, fiercely.
We didn’t know it then, but this was preparing us for the road we would someday walk with Luke.
The hospital halls.
The vigilance.
The exhaustion.
The absolute determination to fight for someone you love more than your own life.
All of it began here—
in that recovery room,
with pain we couldn’t fix,
prayers we whispered constantly,
and a kind of strength we didn’t yet know we had.
More of this part of our story is coming soon.
Thank you for walking through it with me. 🤍

30/11/2025

30/11/2025

5 years ago today:
Luke trying some sugar cookies and trying to say “I love you”