Oh Ava. 365 days later

Oh, Ava. I have whispered those words like a spell for sixteen years now, sometimes in exasperation, sometimes in awe, always in love. I pray I get to whisper “Oh, Ava” for the rest of my days. From the time she was in my belly, I knew I had a firecracker, a sparkler of her own design, ready to light up the world in ways I could not yet imagine. She kicked and jabbed me before she was even born, already moving to the beat of her own shiny tambourine. This girl would keep me on my toes. This girl would test my patience and teach me lessons I did not even know I needed. This girl was destined to sparkle and stir things up.

I was not wrong. Ava came into the world glowing, simply shining. I looked at her for the first time and whispered, “I know you.” Maybe I recognized my own light in hers. Maybe she was my mirror. Maybe I had known her soul in another life. Whatever it was, I knew her fire. I knew her tenacity even seconds after she arrived. I knew she would do big things, and I knew she would test me as she did them.

Ava was always on the go. She walked at nine and a half months. I tease that I still have her beat, because I walked at nine months, but the truth is that Ava made everything her own race. She never wanted to sit still. All. The. Time. Those natural brown ringlets framed her mischievous face. Her bright blue eyes had a green ring, and her laugh sounded like magic. She was the star of her own show. She started dancing at two and never stopped. At three she stepped onto the solo stage and killed it, while I stood in the wings breathing into a brown bag, trying not to hyperventilate as my mom heart threatened to explode. She captivated audiences and all our hearts with her peppery personality. She was spicy.

Ava lives in Ava World. In her world, dessert comes before dinner, underwear at age four was optional, and making slime on the bedroom carpet counted as modern art. She wore bright pink or red lipstick to first grade. Recess teachers told her she was too young. Ava gave exactly two shits what they thought and wore it anyway.

Our house pulsed with her energy. There were dances she made up on the fly, YouTube videos that never made it to YouTube and still sit on the iPad, art projects drying on every surface, and nightly critiques of my dinners, Gordon Ramsay style. Life with Ava was fun, interesting, chaotic, and yes, sometimes frustrating, yet she never missed a chance to make us laugh. From her first breath, she was joy.

Joy can carry weight. At ten, while we were on a two-week vacation to France, I learned how big her feelings were. My bright girl cried and told me she thought about ending her life, that maybe our lives would be better without her. My heart broke. “No, my precious girl. You are needed. You stay.” That year we shifted our lives around her and her needs. She was bullied at school, because society often cannot handle those who shine too bright, speak too loud, live too boldly, and refuse to filter themselves. For fifth grade we decided I would be her teacher, and off we went on a year-long homeschool adventure.

It started beautifully. We went on adventures. She picked the subjects she wanted. We got our hands dirty. The pressure to be more lifted, at least for a while. Then Covid hit, the dreaded 1.9, and Elle came home to do school too. The dynamic changed. After a year away from a classroom, Ava wanted to go back. She craved friends and people. Her soul is meant to be shared, not locked away where nobody can connect with it. So she marched her cute little booty back to sixth grade.

Sixth grade was tough. She had missed a year of school social life and spent it with me. I am cool, but not as cool as the girls on the playground. She had a wonderful teacher and seemed to be doing well, or so I thought, until the day I found goodbye letters. One to me, one to her dad, one to her sister, one to her dog. She had a plan to end her life. She felt unloved, unseen, unheard. How could my brilliant, tenacious, peppery soul not feel seen and loved? Where did I fail? How could I help?

While she wrestled to be seen by the world, I wrestled to be seen in my marriage. I was questioning the religion I had always practiced, and that questioning changed everything between me and my husband. Four months after we nearly lost Ava, we told our daughters we were divorcing. Elle was starting her senior year. Ava was starting middle school. It broke their hearts. Life kept flipping upside down. Normal became a mythical word.

The divorce happened. The girls and I moved into a tiny townhouse we call “The Walls That Built Us.” We became the Girl Gang. For a year, Ava and Elle moved every other week between my house and their dad’s. It was exhausting, settle in then re-pack, switch gears, new rules. Their dad’s house ran differently. The rules he implemented were rules the girls had never known. The dynamic hurt. Not just Ava felt unseen and unloved. Elle did too.

Still, like the mighty girls they are, my Girl Gang rose. They overcame. They handled the transitions with grace and compassion. They became close in a new way, and they stayed true to who they were created to be.

Elle graduated with honors and moved into the University of Utah. That created a new issue for Ava. She was alone at her dad’s without her sister, who had been her saving grace. It was not only hard, it was almost impossible. The frustration and confusion of back and forth living overwhelmed her glowing soul. She needed structure, and even a wild thing like her knew it. Joint custody ended when Elle moved to college, and Ava came to live with me full time.

We have had so much fun together, and we have had our mother-daughter cat fights. We have laughed at our own expense and cried more times than we can count. In our Girl Gang Headquarters, nothing gets past either of us. Ava could tell when I was being sneaky about a date. I could tell when she was being sneaky about whether she went to class. Living with a child who is just like you is odd. You think it will be easy, because it is you, incarnate. It is not. It is like looking in the mirror. We often shy away from our own reflection. We are hardest on ourselves. When your child mirrors you in nearly every way, it is easy to critique and get frustrated, because that is what you do to yourself. I saw myself getting frustrated with my sweet girl because I was frustrated with me. So I sat with it and did the deep personal work to love myself better, so I could love Ava better and show her how to love who she is. I think Ava is phenomenal, and if she is like me, as everyone says she is, then I must be pretty special too. So we chose to love us. I will be damned if she ever feels not enough again.

Middle school was rough. She was bullied again. She struggled to fit in. She did not feel like students or teachers even knew her name. She hated school with everything she had. Many mornings were a fight. Rules were hard for her. In true Ava fashion, she marched to her own beat and made her own rules. I cannot count how many times I had to rescue her phone from the middle school office. It did not matter how many times she was told to put it away. Rules felt like suggestions to her. I could not wait for her to leave middle school pettiness and reach high school. I always knew that once she got there, she would likely join the competitive dance team. In Utah it is called drill team, and at her school they are the Spinnakers. Her sister had been a Spinnaker. Ava had prepared her entire little life to be one too. I knew she would find belonging, sisterhood, responsibility, and dedication. Maybe, just maybe, it would help her rein it in a teeny tiny bit.

High school arrived, and we made it out of middle school hell. I thought that if I could survive Ava in middle school, I could survive anything. The universe was ready to show me how true that lesson was. Freshman year was pretty great. Nothing huge, lots of learning the culture of high school, figuring out friends, trying to fit in, learning the rules, learning the boys. Social life mattered, and so did academics. She knew if her grades slipped, she would not stay on drill. The Spinnakers were known for their talent and for having the highest GPA of any competitive team at the school. She did not want to fail there, so she worked. She made good friends on the team. They hung out after school, after practice, during the summer. Ava wanted friends more than anything, people who saw her. That meant good pressures and not-so-good ones. Some friends pressured her to go to class. Others pressured her to buy them a soda. Some pressured her to talk to a boy. Others pressured her to tell me when she had lied. For the most part, Ava never did what she did not want to do. She does what she wants, whether it looks cool or not. She will do as much as she needs and then some to reach a goal. Be popular, goal obtained. Make the dance team, goal obtained. Be funny, goal obtained. Make new friends, goal obtained. That is Ava. She has gumption.

By the summer of 2024, three years post divorce, I met someone wonderful. Jason. Bonus points, Elle and Ava liked him. We had a great summer learning each other. In early September he took me to Nashville, our first big trip together. Ava stayed home, Miss Independent, and since she did not drive yet I arranged rides for practices, school, social life, and home. I travel often to photograph weddings, so staying home for a few days was not unusual. Still, something felt different this time. I was more worried about her than normal. A few little mishaps while I was gone frustrated Jason, mostly because they were not big issues, but I made them big. My mom senses were buzzing. Meanwhile, Ava crammed a lot into those four days. She went with my parents to see the Savannah Bananas. She went to a Post Malone concert with her bestie Hayden and her cousin Lexi. She worked the second Post Malone concert as a fundraiser for drill. She kept up with school and learned the homecoming halftime routine she would perform that Friday. Life was funneling her right into the cool high school zone. She was living her best life in Ava World.

September 11, 2024, began like any school day. She had drill practice at 5:30 a.m., and I dropped her off because she could not drive yet. She practiced with drill, dance company, and cheerleaders for the halftime performance. I always pause on September 11 and remember how the world changed in one day. I never imagined that day would become personal to us, that it would change us forever too.

After school I texted Ava that when I picked her up we were going straight to Fashion Place Mall to look for a homecoming dress. She had not been asked to the dance, and she still has not been asked to many dances, but she knew she wanted to go with her best friends. I picked her up and slid into the passenger seat so she could drive. She looked at me with wild, excited eyes. At fifteen, with only a learner’s permit, she could drive with me in the car. Any chance to feel the wheels under her hands thrilled her. I told her she could drive on the freeway for the first time. She was nervous and excited. I was peeing my pants and scared out of my mind, while pretending to be cool, like a cucumber that had been left on the vine in the hot September sun. We found the perfect dress. Simple white, a giant bow on the back, and she looked spectacular.

We were on a time crunch because it was homecoming week. The school does a homecoming parade on Wednesday and a powder puff football game for the girls afterward. The drill team performs in the parade and the girls play in the game. She rushed to get ready. Makeup on, hair slicked back, tights out, when we got a text. The powder puff game was canceled due to poor air quality from seasonal fires. The air was thick with smoke and it was gross. I wish now we had not cared about our lungs that day. The parade was still on, then moments later, canceled too. Our plan had been to go to Leatherby’s for ice cream after the parade, then home to relax. I had homemade chicken noodle soup waiting, with homemade noodles, one of Ava’s favorites. Since I did not get to attend the parade, I texted Jason to see if he wanted soup. “Of course,” he said. I told Ava I would run to Jason’s to drop off soup, then come home and we would go for ice cream. Ava changed the plan. No ice cream. Friends instead. Since she could not drive alone, one of her friends would pick her up. I asked, “What time will you be home?” She said, “Between nine and nine thirty.” That meant I could take soup to Jason, visit a minute, then get home to my girl.

I spent a little time with Jason. He invited me to go get a drink at a local bar. I wanted to go. We had such a fun time in Nashville, and I was probably going through Jason withdrawals, but I missed Ava too, so I turned down the drink, cut the evening short, and headed home.

A little after nine I was home, feeling snacky. I made myself a bite and sat at the table. The house hummed with its usual sounds, the soft whir of the fridge, a clock somewhere ticking. My phone rang. A name flashed, one I did not know. Because it had a name attached, I answered instead of letting it go to voicemail.

“Kandis?” a young voice cried. “This is Indie. We were car surfing and Ava fell off the car and she is bleeding from her ears. Here is a police officer, he wants to talk to you.”

“Hello, is this Ava’s mom?” the officer asked. His voice was calm in a way that made the room tilt.

“Yes. What is going on?”

“Ava is being taken to Primary Children’s Hospital. I will meet you there.”

“Is Ava okay?”

“She is alive.”

Alive. The word hit like a bell and cracked the air in two.

I yanked off the pajamas I had just put on. I might have forgotten a bra. I ran out the door. The half-eaten snack sat abandoned on the table. I did grab a phone charger. Some small voice told me I would need it.

The night outside was thick and smoky. Streetlights smeared into pale halos. In the car I called Elle first. She lived at the University of Utah in her sorority house. “Elle, baby, listen.” I sobbed out what little I knew. She snapped into big sister mode and handed her keys to a sorority sister. “I cannot even drive two minutes,” she said. “We are going now.” Then I called my little sister, Shyleen. I would have called my parents, but they were serving in the LDS temple that night and could not answer. “Ava was car surfing,” I said. “She is bleeding from her ears. They are taking her to Primary Children’s.” “I am on my way,” she said. “I will meet you there. I will get a hold of Mom and Dad.” Shyleen is not just my baby sister. She is another mother to my girls. She and Ava have had a special bond since Ava was born. Shyleen calls her “Honey.” Ava calls her “Aunt Honey.” They are each other’s Honeys.

Shyleen reached my parents, and they left their temple posts and rushed to meet me. She also called her sister-in-law Shannon, who has become another mother figure to Ava, and Shannon’s daughter, Hayden, who is like a cousin to Ava. They had just seen Post Malone together. Hayden and her cousin Beckham have a hilarious squad name with Ava, the Cream Team. They needed to be there.

After calling Shyleen, I called my boyfriend Jason. He had planned to ride his Harley to the bar. The phone rang and rang, then went to voicemail. I texted, called again, and when he heard it ring he picked up. “Ava was in an accident,” I choked. “Primary Children’s.” “I will be right there,” he said. He sped home, changed because he said wearing a shirt with a skull on it to the hospital was tasteless, put his Harley away, and zipped up.

Then I made the call I did not want to make. I had to call Ava’s dad, my ex-husband, Dave. Years earlier, when I told him I did not think I believed in the same religion anymore, he said he could not love me anymore. That cut deep. I was bitter. I did not want to call him, but he is her dad. He needed to know. I dialed. One ring, call denied. Again. One ring, call denied. Again and again, denied after a ring or two. On the seventh call he answered. “I cannot talk right now,” he said. I shot back, “Why would I be calling you at nine thirty, over and over? Ava is going to the hospital.” He said, “What was she doing that for? That is so dumb.” I snapped, “It does not matter why right now. It matters that she is going to the hospital. You should come, or I will keep you posted.” He came, despite my interrupting his date that night.

I drove toward the hospital as fast as I could. Sirens somewhere far off curled through the smoke. The normal route to Primary Children’s was closed. I did not know until I was rerouted in the wrong direction. Knowing my sister was a few minutes behind me, I warned her to take a different route. She told me she was following the ambulance she assumed Ava was in and would turn off.

Elle reached the hospital first. She knew Ava was not there yet, so she sat in the ER waiting room and cried. Staff noticed, approached, and when she explained, they took her to a conference room to wait. Shortly after, Shyleen joined her. Fluorescent lights hummed. The clock on the wall stuttered forward. That in-between place where fear breathes.

I pulled into the parking lot around 9:35 p.m. and sprinted into the emergency room. My face must have said, “My daughter is here and hurt and I do not know what to do, help me,” because within seconds a social worker met me. “Ava’s mom?” I nodded. “Come with me.” She led me into the ER and pointed to a chair against a wall. “Please sit.” She explained she was a social worker for emergency and trauma patients. Trauma. The word hung in the air like a storm cloud. I still thought bumps, bruises, maybe a concussion. She told me Ava had been intubated at the scene, so she would have to spend one night in the ICU. My mind tried to reduce it all to something ordinary. Why jump the gun? A few bumps and they intubated her? Surely this was overreaction. She said when Ava came out I could go with her to CT and stay the entire time. Results could take an hour or two.

The doors opened. The trauma team moved like a river. They pushed Ava past me on a stretcher. I was not prepared for what I saw. Her clothes had been cut away. Her face was covered in dried blood. Her eyes were closed. A collar held her neck straight. Her mouth was open around a breathing tube. Her body was still. Lifeless. No laughter. No tears. No chatter. Just hush, like the whole room was holding its breath. I followed her to CT and watched the machine pull her in and out, a cold white ring tracing the story inside her skull. I still told myself broken bones and maybe two or three days in the hospital.

We returned from CT. Dave arrived, and though we had not seen eye to eye since the divorce, he put his arms around me as we stood by our unconscious, blood-covered girl. We wept, two parents stripped of everything but love.

Within seven minutes of the CT finishing, a young, beautiful, blonde resident neurosurgeon stood near me. She introduced herself and said Ava would likely need brain surgery that night. Brain surgery? My mind skidded. Two minutes later an older doctor, Dr. Kestle, introduced himself. He pulled up the CT on a computer and showed me the images. It looked like static, no clean margins, just blur. He pointed out the blood and swelling and said, “We have to get her into surgery within the hour. This is life or death. If the swelling continues to press on her brain stem, she will die.”

We had minutes. We called family to come say goodbye. Elle, Shyleen, my mom and dad, Shannon and Hayden, and Jason gathered. They lifted us up, prayed over Ava, and we sent her to have her life saved. They wheeled her away, lights passing overhead like beads on a rosary.

Before they took her, they gave me the blunt math. She had less than a five percent chance of surviving. If she survived surgery, she would spend at least a week in a medically induced coma in the PICU, possibly two. Two months in the brain trauma unit. Another two to three months in inpatient rehabilitation. Maybe home in January or February. Ava’s accident happened shortly after nine on September 11. She was in surgery by 10:45.

It would be weeks before I learned everything that happened that night. The officer’s information had been clipped so I could get to Ava. Later I learned a group of kids from her high school had gone to a park where several cars had surfers. Car surfing has been around a long time. It was popularized in the 1980s film “Teen Wolf,” and teens have tried it ever since, not believing they would get hurt. Superman syndrome. After convincing a friend to drive, Ava and one of her best friends climbed onto the roof. It took a terrible turn. Ava flew off the car. Some kids ran. Her friends stayed. They called for help. They kept her alive. They answered every question, took every criticism, held every hateful comment, carried every tortured thought, and they mourned silently alongside us. They were heroes that night. Their lives changed too.

I paced the halls for hours. The floor tiles clicked under my shoes. Vending machines hummed. I could not think. I could not breathe. I watched seconds crawl on a wall clock and begged for news from the operating room. I slipped into the hallway, thinking I was alone, then collapsed into the wall. I opened my eyes, and Jason was there. Through sobs I asked, “Do you believe in God?” He swallowed, eyes wet, and said, “Yes, I do.” I asked, “Will you pray for my Ava?” He held my hands, bowed his head, and spoke the most genuine, unscripted prayer I have ever heard. I remember the feeling more than the words, a blanket of love being tucked around my girl. After amen I said, “I do not know what to believe.” He answered with the sentence that carried me through every dark hour: “You believe in Ava.”

The PICU days were long, scary, and sleepless. The room was a constellation of beeps and pulsing lights. Tests, data points, medication doses, teams of doctors, new nurses each day. I asked hundreds of questions. “What is that machine doing?” “What is that medication and what does it do?” “What does that number mean?” “Is that expected?” “What do those beeps tell us?” “Can she hear me?” Seconds dripped by while I searched her face for any twitch or flicker of life. I pleaded with God. I read her books, sang her songs, told her stories. I insisted anyone who came to visit bring only hope, joy, love, and healing energy. At night Jason stayed. There was one recliner. He sat in the chair and I sat between his legs. We reclined, his arms around me, my back on his chest, and we slept, or tried to, as monitors whispered and machines breathed for my child.

I worried about things that would matter to Ava when she woke up. They had shaved half of her head. Her feet were sticking out, and her toenail polish was janky. I knew she would be embarrassed. I took a nail file and gently removed the chipped polish. She did not need to wake up to see her dogs out like that.

Her surgery removed half of her skull so her brain could swell outward and not crush her brain stem. They placed a bolt to measure her intracranial pressure. I watched that number like a hawk. The swelling worsened. You could literally see the brain swelling outward where the skull would have been. They placed her on a cooling blanket because a fever could cause more swelling. Touching her felt like touching ice. I cried and begged them to let her warm up, to put socks on her feet, to give her a blanket. Even in a coma, her body tried to function. The cold made her tremble and shiver as a reflex. She needed suctioning to clear her lungs. When they suctioned, her body coughed and thrashed. It was terrifying. They would not feed her at first. They wanted her body and brain to rest. On day four they started tube feeds. Every two hours the nurses repositioned her to prevent bedsores. Every time they moved her, her brain pressure spiked. I asked if we could skip a reposition now and then, because watching the number climb was unbearable.

Days wore on. My heart cracked again and again. Her neurological exams were consistent, but not improving. Her eyes did not track light. She did not squeeze hands. She did not move toes when feet were tickled. No responses. Prayers kept rising. Ava became our Ava. Her story went viral. Local news, “Inside Edition,” “People Magazine.” Parents everywhere talked to their children about the danger of car surfing. Strangers raised their voices in prayer. Love poured in from everywhere, and then there was a flicker. My brother-in-law Kurtis held her hand and said, “It is Uncle Kurt.” Her head turned slightly toward his voice. Ava was in there.

Because she arrived as a trauma case, they only had time for a CT at first. An MRI would be needed to see the true extent of the damage, but she had a metal bolt in her head. I called it her unicorn horn, which felt fitting for a magical, rare girl. Once they removed the bolt, they took her to MRI. I told her that morning, “This is the most important photo shoot of your life.” The magnets thrummed like distant thunder. A team of neurologists came to discuss the results. “Ava’s brain is severely damaged. Every cortex has severe injury. There is shearing, where nerve fibers are torn from one another, like wires stripped apart.” They told me Ava would likely have deficits for the rest of her life and need care for the rest of her life. That she would not walk on her own or feed herself, and might not talk. The words were heavier than lead. I heard Jason’s voice again in my head. “You believe in Ava.” I looked the head neurologist in the eye, pointed at my girl, and said, with a mother’s conviction, “But I believe in Ava.” I said it loud enough for Ava to hear.

They slowly lifted the coma. She had no control. No words. No eye contact. No expression. Her body thrashed. She moaned in pain. She was like an infant again. Therapists began to help her relearn how to walk and talk. Friends wanted to visit, but I could not let many come. Ava was a baby right then. I wanted to protect her dignity. I posted daily livestream videos to keep everyone up to date. Love kept pouring in, and she began to remember and rewire. Her speech did not come back right away. She only said “mom” or “momma.” Everything was “mom.” A cup, the door, the TV, the nurse, the shoes. I asked, “Will she be nonverbal?” The team said they did not think so, because she had formed a word. It was likely the first word she thought when she woke up and the most important one. My mom heart melted. She is a teenager, and sometimes I wondered if she hated me, but here she was, calling everything by my name. Ava was in there.

One afternoon I sat in her room, frustrated that she had no words yet, and a quiet thought nudged me: “Go tickle her.” I stood up, walked to her bed, smiled, and said, “Hi, Ava,” then put my hands on her sides and tickled her like when she was little. She truly smiled for the first time. She laughed, a bright bell in that sterile room, and my heart leapt. That laugh. That is my girl. That night she spoke her first sentence. Laughter was her medicine, because she is joy. After that, she soared. She began to walk. She fed herself. She brushed her teeth. She cooked in the hospital kitchen. She helped wash her laundry. She built puzzles and made crafts. She worked with therapists and remembered what she was capable of.

A month after the accident she had her skull replaced. They shaved her entire head. She no longer needed a helmet to protect her brain. Her friends visited. People cheered. She set a goal. “I go home on 3.1,” she said. She meant October 31, in time for Halloween. She did it. Seven weeks and one day after her accident, Ava walked out of the hospital. Nurses and doctors lined the hallways. Family and close friends gathered. The EMTs and firefighters who had been with her the night of the accident came to line the halls too. Balloons bobbed. There were tears and laughter. Watching her walk out laughing is one of my favorite memories.

Home looked different. In the middle of our hospital journey, my new relationship with Jason had not been tended, and we broke up the day after she came home. It was gut wrenching. I was going to help Ava relearn life on my own. I was sad and I was tired. Even though she walked out of the hospital, the road ahead was still long. She struggled with speech and word finding. Her maturity level was like a third grader. She needed a lot of help. In her head, though, she felt fine. Ask her now and she will tell you, “I know I have a TBI, but I have always felt fine.” In a way, I am grateful. She never saw her injury as a reason to stop. She worked within the limits, often without noticing them, and kept moving forward. In January, at the start of second semester, she went back to school half time. She took dance lessons and attended drill practice every school day. She started hanging out with friends. Her maturity climbed. Her vocabulary doubled daily. She worked hard.

I often say I have raised my daughter to sixteen twice. In one year, I watched her go through every phase again, from an infant to a car-driving teenager.

We still have challenges. There are cognition and short-term memory struggles, retaining information, remembering what she did hours earlier, but every day is better. She is talking like a teenager and interacting like one. She passed all the tests to become a licensed driver, including an in-depth, hands-on exam by a neurologist. She is ready for the world.

As life found a new rhythm, I reflected on who Ava truly is. Ava is light. Ava is good. Ava is my hero.

I would be remiss if I did not share my heart about the people who held us. While Ava was in the hospital, love and prayers and gifts and donations poured in. I did not have the bandwidth to fully express my gratitude at the time. Thousands of texts, DMs, and letters went unanswered. Looking back, I feel a little humiliated that I could not thank everyone. We received blankets, gift cards, and unicorns from all over the world. High school drill teams, dance companies, cheerleaders, dance studios, professional teams like the Utah Jazz Dancers, and college teams brought baskets to her team, made posters, sent cards, wore pink ribbons, and spread awareness about car surfing. Individuals and families donated and sent gifts. Businesses and organizations held fundraisers. I was so overwhelmed with recovery that I could not properly thank you all. If you donated, sent a gift, said a prayer, or shared her story, thank you from the bottom of my heart. I saw nearly every message, even if I did not respond. On the eve of her one-year anniversary, my heart is overflowing with gratitude. Thank you for your love and support for our girl.

Ava made a miraculous recovery because she was created to do hard things, to go the distance, to never give up, and to inspire millions. Our belief in her sheer determination and capacity lifted her and kept her moving forward. Ava is not just my girl. She is our girl. She is our hero.

If you are reading this with a knot in your stomach and a prayer in your throat, please hear me. There is a way through. It will not look like the life you planned, but it can be threaded with wonder. Ask every question. Demand gentle hands and clear explanations. Let people love you in practical ways. Accept the casseroles and the gift cards and the unicorns. Sit on the cold PICU chair, sing the old songs, tell the silly jokes, file the chipped polish, and say, out loud, what you believe for your child. When your faith wobbles, borrow mine. Believe in your person the way I believe in Ava.