11/10/2025
& We Made It, Together
We’re finally out of the hospital.
I’ve said it. I’ve written it. I’ve whispered it to myself in the quiet—but it still doesn’t feel real. After months of living in a place where time stood still, where every breath felt borrowed, we’re out. We’re home. We’re together.
I had to leave Olen so many times. And there were stretches where I didn’t leave the hospital at all. My body stayed in one place, but my heart was constantly torn—racing between children’s hospital and the few precious hours I had with Olen. We were scattered. Fragmented. Trying to hold on to each other through the chaos and the ache.
There were days I stood in the hallway and let my dreams quietly shatter. I had imagined us outside those walls, laughing, traveling, just being. I wanted so badly to believe we’d get there. But I was afraid to hope too much. One foot in the dream, one foot in the real. Would we ever take a trip together? Would we laugh freely again? Would we ever stand somewhere—anywhere—outside a hospital, all of us, whole?
And now we have. We did.
But it wasn’t simple. It wasn’t clean. It was survival. It was trauma. It was sobbing in waiting rooms and conference rooms, screaming at God driving and throughout the hospital, collapsing into myself while somehow still standing. I was out of my body and inside everything all at once—every monitor, every update, every decision. How do you describe a mama so terrified of losing her baby that her soul feels like it’s unraveling? I had no control. No control over what was happening to Teaks. No control over not being able to hold both Teaks and Olen at the same time. No control when Teaks couldn’t be held at all.
And I had no control the days Teaks died. Twice. His heart stopped. Two separate codes, each running over 45 minutes. I still don’t know how to carry that. I still don’t know how to hold the truth of it. That my baby’s body was lifeless. That teams of people fought with everything they had to bring him back. That I was helpless watching the world collapse around me.
But I know this: he saw heaven. I believe that with everything in me. I believe he got a glimpse of glory—of peace, of light, of love. And I believe a crowd of angels surrounded him and said, “You have to go back. They still need you.” And somehow, he did. Twice. And I know heaven is hard to come back from. But he did. And I thank God with every breath I take. For the miracle. For the mercy. For the joy in his eyes and the life in his laugh. For the chance to keep loving him here.
The trauma doesn’t vanish just because we made it out. It’s woven into us now. It lives in the way I flinch at certain sounds. In the way I scan my children’s faces for signs of something wrong. In the way I hold them tighter, kiss them more, whisper prayers over their heads while they sleep.
This trip wasn’t just a vacation. It was a resurrection. A moment that said: we lived. We made it. We’re not just surviving—we’re together. These photos aren’t just beach pictures. They’re proof. Proof that both our children are alive. Healthy. Laughing. Loving us. That we’re not standing on the edge of goodbye anymore.
I look at these photos and I cry. Deep, aching cries. Because I remember what it cost to get here. I remember the nights I didn’t sleep. The prayers I yelled and whispered through my tears. The fear that sat in my chest like a stone. And I remember the grace. The miracles. The love that held us up when we couldn’t stand.
And the people—our people. We learned who really sees us. Who really cares. Who shows up when everything is falling apart. Some people surprised us with their presence. Some surprised us with their absence. But the ones who stayed—who carried us then and still carry us now—you are the reason we’re standing. You are the reason we didn’t fall apart completely. You held us in hospital rooms, in text messages and calls, in the quiet moments when we didn’t even have words. You still do. And we still need you.
Even strangers became part of our story. People who recognize us now and say, “We prayed for you.” People who cry when they see Teaks in my arms. People who followed our journey from afar and carried us in prayer when we couldn’t carry ourselves. That kind of love is holy. That kind of support is why we’re still standing.
And the medical staff—our warriors, our angels, our family. You let us love through wires and codes and machines. You kept Teaks on his healing road. You fought harder when it didn’t look good. You love him like he is yours. You loved us like we mattered. And you do. You matter so much. We love you. You are forever part of our family. You didn’t just do your jobs—you carried our hearts. You fought beside us. You stayed when it was hard. You made space for our love to live in the middle of the fight. We will never forget it.
Prayer is why he’s here. Why we’re here. Why we’re able to breathe and laugh and cry and keep going. We wouldn’t be here without it. I believe that with everything in me.
We weep for the families who didn’t get this chapter. We carry them in our hearts. And we hold our babies tighter. We kiss them again and again.
We made it. But we’re still making it. Every day.
And I’m thankful. For every breath. Every laugh. Every step forward. This is a God story. A story of survival, of grace, of love that refuses to give up.
We’re here. And we’re not done.
There’s so much more to say—so many life updates to share. I’ll start speaking about those soon. But for now, just know: we’re still here, still healing, still held. And we’re so grateful.
Thank you to Tallie McLean Photography for capturing our story, just free and wild and playing on the beach.
