Two years ago today, I wasn’t out wandering trails or planning summer adventures.
I was sitting in a hospital room, watching my mom grow weaker by the day.
She couldn’t stand. She could barely sit up. And no one could tell us why.
They ran test after test, ruling things out but never giving answers.
And I stayed by her side for 2 ½ weeks—because leaving just wasn’t an option.
⏳ The Waiting Was Heavy
Those days felt like a strange kind of time warp—everything paused inside that hospital, but the world outside kept spinning.
The doctors were kind, but vague.
“We’re still running tests,” they’d say.
“We’re watching her closely.”
And I was watching her even closer—studying every movement, every sigh, every time she opened her eyes.
There was this quiet dread sitting in the room with me, unspoken but impossible to ignore.
Hope was still there—but it was fragile, and I could feel it fraying.
💭 When Life Puts You in a Waiting Room, You Rethink Everything
I’ve always turned to nature when life got overwhelming. But that summer, I wasn’t out in the woods or under the open sky.
I was in a chair that creaked when I shifted, with vending machine snacks and hours that stretched on forever.
And in that strange stillness, something inside me shifted.
I realized I didn’t want to keep living for the “someday” moments.
I didn’t want to keep putting joy on hold, waiting for life to slow down or make sense.
I wanted to live more. Be outside more. Say yes to peace even when it felt far away.
🌲 What That Summer Left Behind
My mom didn’t get better.
We didn’t get a miracle or a diagnosis that could fix things.
She passed away in that hospital, and I walked out carrying a grief that doesn’t go away—it just finds new places to live inside you.
But I also carried a promise I made to myself:
- I won’t wait to live.
- I won’t keep putting off the things that make me feel alive.
- I’ll go outside more. Cry when I need to. Laugh even when it’s hard. And make space for joy that doesn’t need to be earned.
Because she would’ve wanted that.
Because life is too short to wait for clarity before you start living it.
🏕 Why I’m Sharing This Now
Every June, I find myself back in that room—mentally, emotionally, sometimes even physically.
I remember the quiet strength in her, even when her body was failing.
I remember the questions we never got answers to.
And I remember how that summer split my life in two—before and after.
But this isn’t just about what I lost.
It’s about what I learned.
About how grief teaches you what matters.
How presence becomes everything.
And how love doesn’t leave—it just changes form.
🧭 If You’re Sitting in a Hospital Room Right Now…
If you’re in the thick of the not-knowing, the waiting, the holding-your-breath stage—I see you.
I know how heavy it feels.
I know how lonely and quiet it gets.
And I know how hard it is to stay hopeful when the answers don’t come.
But please hear this: you are not alone.
You are not weak.
And even in that place—without resolution, without certainty—you’re growing strength you’ll carry with you forever.
This part of your story may hurt like hell.
But it matters.
And so do you.
