Dear Sara,
This is me writing to you nine years after that life-changing event. Life doesn’t look anything like I thought it would, and there has been so much to learn and grieve—but God is still good in the chaos.
Nothing is a coincidence. I think I always believed that, but I’ve truly felt it lately. It’s not a coincidence that on one of my hardest days, a friend texts me out of the blue or a letter shows up that encourages my soul. Those moments feel intentional—like reminders that I’m not alone.
We need people. We cannot do life or walk through hard things alone. Yes, we have to choose wisely who we surround ourselves with, but I can’t count the number of times I was this close to giving up, and certain people took me by the hand and walked with me. Their presence mattered more than anything they could have said.
Everyone goes through something, but it doesn’t have to define you. Sometimes struggles are visible, and sometimes they’re hidden. Over the past few years, I’ve learned that I am more than my accident or my brain injury. Yes, I live with chronic pain and migraines, but those things have shaped me into a more compassionate nurse—because I understand in a deeper way.
Life is not simply about my happiness or comfort. I knew that growing up, but there’s a difference between head knowledge and heart knowledge. Life is about glorifying God and participating in His desire to rescue humanity. If God can use my story to advance His kingdom, who am I to stand in His way?
There are also people I may have never met if my life had gone differently—my husband being the most significant. I met him shortly after everything changed, and he walked with me as I was still finding myself, before I felt like I had anything to offer. We are still growing and figuring things out, but he is my person. In a strange way, my accident placed us in the same circles sooner than we might have been otherwise.
It’s necessary to put down roots—to have a place or people to call home. With a nomadic childhood, I learned to root myself in people rather than places. I’ve always wrestled with the tension of staying versus going, and I’m learning how to live in both. There is excitement in exploring new places and experiencing new things, but there is also a quiet comfort in being known—by the barista at a local coffee shop or the familiar face at work. There is something deeply human about being seen.
Hard seasons can grow me into who I’m meant to be. Don’t hear what I’m not saying—I hate hard seasons. I don’t enjoy them, and I wouldn’t choose them. But I can’t deny what they’ve produced in me. These seasons have shaped me into a better, more confident, and more compassionate nurse and person. Even now, in this season of a broken foot—again—I can see that God is still working. He’s using this hard season to shape me and teach me. Right now, I’m learning the value of rest.
This isn’t a comprehensive list of everything I’ve learned or grieved, but as nine years passes, I’m realizing that I am a complex person. This experience is part of my story, but it is not the whole story. It has made life more complicated in some ways, but it has also made me a better nurse, daughter, friend, mother and wife.
And that matters.
Fearless at Heart 