Grace Under Fire

My husband, Marc, has been telling me for a while that I should write a book. And maybe someday I will. But right now, what I can do is write a blog post

— maybe one story that shares a chapter of my life that became a teacher in ways I didn’t expect.

This past week, as Marc went in for shoulder surgery, I was reminded of what it truly means to find grace under fire.

I never imagined hospitals or surgeries would trigger anything for me, but life has a way of surprising me — showing me where my unhealed places live, but also how much I have grown.

When I drove to the hospital with Marc, I never once thought about what was about to unfold. I was fine. I hadn’t considered hospitals or surgeries as a trigger for me.

But the moment we sat down in the waiting room chairs, something stirred.

I knew it. I felt it.

Memories I hadn’t expected from 13 years ago came rushing back—flashes of times long ago when I was the support person, the care giver, to my husband, Frank when he was so sick and battling colon cancer.

A lifetime ago. An older version of me who walked through fire and survived it, and who had carried fear and uncertainty heavy on my shoulders.

Sitting there, I felt those echoes rise, reminding me not of my weakness, but of how those experiences have shaped me. They molded me, prepared me, and ultimately defined the strength I carry now.

The day itself felt strange from the very beginning. Little things went wrong. There were delays in surgery, miscommunication, and a lot of waiting.

The hospital was a massive campus, and with construction happening everywhere, it felt disorienting. Nothing seemed easy. I kept asking myself over and over: What is this all teaching me?

It felt messy.

And in all of that waiting, something was happening inside of me.

Whether I wanted it to or not, my body was remembering, processing, and reflecting.

I had no control over the clock, no control over the circumstances.

All I could do was sit in it, breathe through it, and listen to the lessons surfacing: patience, surrender, and the courage to be vulnerable.

That waiting time became its own teacher.

When they finally wheeled Marc away for surgery, the weight in my chest grew heavy.

Tears started to come.

In that moment, I realized I had been fooling myself. I had been playing small in my marriage —keeping parts of my heart guarded, as if holding back could somehow protect me from pain, rejection, or potential suffering.

But as the tears came, I knew the truth. I loved him deeper than I had ever admitted to myself. And no amount of pretending otherwise could shield me from the vulnerability of that love.

Ahhh, look how love shapes us even when we aren’t paying attention.

I decided to step outside and breathe the fresh air from Mother Nature. In the stillness by myself in the courtyard, I told myself: This situation is different. I am different, and, what do I know now that I didn’t know then? I told myself to lean on my tools.

I gained a lot of insight and clarity around who I am now.

I realized that while I couldn’t control the outcome, I could choose how to meet the moment—with grace.

Many hours later, while waiting alone in the darkness of the waiting room, the nurse finally came and called my name to come back to with her to recovery to see Marc. It was after 10:00 pm. 

She smiled and said, “He’s so cute. He loves you so much.” She told me how Marc, still under anesthesia, had shared our story of how we have known each other since the third grade. Hearing that softened everything inside me.

Love was the answer, not fear. It was a reminder that this wasn’t the past repeating, this was a new chapter, and I had the chance to write it differently.

That night, when we were finally able to leave the hospital, I walked to get the car, and the sky exploded with flashes of lightning. A summer monsoon storm was rolling in. The storm outside mirrored the storm within.

And just like the sky, I couldn’t control it. I didn’t even try. I returned to my breath, the anchor I’ve gathered over years of practice, and chose to trust that we would make it home safely.

The drive from Phoenix to Sedona on a sunny, good day is long and winding. At night, in a thunderstorm, it was definitely a challenge. Once again, I turned to my breath…I reflected. Life will always bring storms—expected and unexpected.

The true work is not in controlling them, but in learning how to respond with presence, breath, and grace.

Why do I share this vulnerable story with you? 

To build a bridge to make connections with you.  To share with you that this is why I do the work. 

My life has been my greatest teacher. Every challenge, every test, every surrender has shaped how I hold space for other women walking through their own transitions.

Because you never know when old wounds will resurface. But you also never know when love, wisdom, and resilience will rise up to meet you, if you let them.

As I reflect, I’m reminded that there is no greater way to coach, guide, or hold

space than to use my own life as the mirror for awareness. This is how I show up for you — not from theory, but from lived experience.

I’d love to hear from you: What storms have you weathered that taught you something about yourself?

What have you learned that you carry forward today? 

Hit reply and share your story with me — or, if you’re ready to go deeper, let’s connect and explore how I can walk with you through your own season of change. 

#healingjourney #selflove #vulnerability #innerpeace #personalgrowth #lifelessons #mentalhealthmatters