Silver Linings
This whole ordeal has been a wrenching experience I never saw coming. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I almost died—that I could have suffocated in my sleep before I even made it to the hospital. Then came the diagnosis, and with it, the inevitable Googling of survival rates and life expectancy after treatment. It’s enough to make anyone feel a little (or a lot) crushed.
At my lowest moments, I cried uncontrollably in my hospital bed, sobbing, “Why is this happening to me?!”
But I learned I had to release that pain. Let the tears flow. Let the fear and despair move through me instead of settling in. Once I did, I started to see silver linings at every turn.
Bobbie, Jordan’s mom, got me to the hospital just in time.
My transfer request to the top lymphoma center in the region was approved almost immediately.
My mom was allowed to fly with me on the small transport plane, so I wouldn’t have to go alone.
And Jordan? He packed up our entire house in Montana and began the move to Denver to be by my side.
This is where things got a little tricky.
Jordan was still in Montana, giving away furniture that wouldn’t fit in the U-Haul and tying up loose ends. Meanwhile, I was lying in a hospital bed in Denver—a city I’d only ever briefly visited for a Pilates conference in 2018—trying to find a place to live. Craigslist and Facebook housing groups were flooded with scammers, and I didn’t know the first thing about safe neighborhoods.
After a few frustrating encounters, I posted a vague message on Facebook to see if I had any Denver connections.
Almost instantly, a childhood friend commented: he lived in Denver and would be happy to help. Although we hadn’t talked in years, we picked up right where we left off. As fate would have it, David had been an ICU nurse for years and now works in training. He lived just 15 minutes from the hospital and visited me right away.
David became a lifeline—for both me and my mom. We reminisced about pool days and boating trips, the time I walked face-first into a glass display case, and old school friends. He brought my mom to his house to decompress from the trauma of watching her daughter fight for her life. And without a second thought, he opened his home to her, to me, to Jordan, his cousin Daniel (who helped with the move), and our three dogs—for as long as we needed.
How could I be this lucky?
When Jordan arrived in Denver, I was still in the hospital. But I was so relieved knowing he had a place to land—and even more grateful that David helped us navigate the rental market. He shared local insights, scoped out neighborhoods, and even drove by potential listings to make sure they were safe and worth pursuing.
When I finally got out of the hospital, I was warmly welcomed into David’s home by his partner, Hunter, and their roommate, Rachel. It truly was an “our home is your home” kind of situation.
After three weeks in the hospital, I was weaker than I’d ever been—struggling with weight loss, muscle atrophy, and general fatigue from the hell I’d just survived. The weather that week was unseasonably warm: 70 degrees and sunny. I soaked up every second of it, swinging gently in a hammock with a decaf latte in hand, feet in the grass, sun on my face.
About a week later—just one day before I had to return for my second round of chemo—we found out we’d been approved for our number one housing choice: a sweet, quaint home with a big backyard in a quiet neighborhood. Jordan, somehow, managed to do almost all the moving himself (I’m currently limited to lifting 10 lbs max) and got us nearly settled before bringing me back to the hospital again.
I can’t talk about silver linings without mentioning the outpouring of love I’ve received—from longtime friends and near strangers alike. Some reached out before I’d even announced my diagnosis, sensing something was off. Others haven’t hesitated to offer emotional or logistical support. Your messages, your love, and your unwavering presence have carried me through some of the darkest days. Yes, the chemo is working—but you are part of my healing, too. I feel it. And I love each and every one of you.
And perhaps the most humbling silver lining of all: the generous GoFundMe page created by my former employer, Kelly, at The Studio Pilates in Atlanta. My time at the studio may have been brief, but the connection was real and mutual. I’m blown away by the support that’s already come through. If you feel called to contribute, the link is here.
Thank you for reading. Thank you for loving me. I’m seeing the light through the cracks—and I’m holding tight to every glimmer.
