December didn’t always feel magical to me.
For a long time, it felt like a gamble.
While the world leaned into twinkling lights, overflowing calendars, and cheerful expectations, I was quietly bracing myself—wondering if my body would cooperate or betray me once again.
Would I have the strength to show up?
To smile?
To be present for my children?
Or would this season take more than I had left to give?
This is the part of my story that doesn’t often get wrapped in bows—but it’s the chapter that shaped everything that came after.
Once upon a time, the holidays felt like rolling a set of dice. I never knew if my body would allow me to function like a “normal” mom. Anxiety lived quietly in the background—wondering if I could manage the outdoor activities, the crafts, the shopping, the cooking, the cleaning… all while staying present and in good spirits.
I never wanted to be grinchy. That feeling didn’t arrive until about my third year of being tossed back and forth between doctor appointments, specialist follow-ups, and the ever-dreaded vials of blood being drawn from my already exhausted body.
By the time December arrived, I was drained—physically, mentally, emotionally, and financially. The sounds of Christmas became unexpectedly traumatic. These were the years I lay in hospital beds, MRI and CT scan machines humming around me, while Christmas music played softly in the background.
So when I say, please wait to play Christmas carols until after Thanksgiving, I truly mean it.
These were the years I now call the trial-and-error seasons.
I was drowning in diagnoses, prescription suggestions, emotional trauma—you name it. Every appointment brought more confusion than clarity. Eventually, my body shut down completely, forcing me into bed for nearly 45 days.
It felt like living inside a bad dream.
Hopeless.
Scared.
Disconnected from the life I once knew.
I didn’t know what my future held—or if I even had one.
Chronic gastritis.
Esophagitis.
Class B GERD.
Gastroparesis.
Diverticulosis.
These were just a few of the conditions that surfaced during that phase. While some symptoms were directly related to my autoimmune disease, many stemmed from the overwhelming number of pharmaceuticals I was taking at the time.
The flare-ups became so severe that my gastroenterologist eventually suggested I prepare myself for the possibility that we had reached our last-resort options.
Eventually, my gastroenterologist requested an appointment with my husband present. I will never forget hearing these words:
“Let’s focus on what’s in our control and understand what’s not. Spend time with your wife and children, as we don’t know when the day may come that this disease takes its toll.”
In other words, I was slowly dying from the complications of overlapping autoimmune diseases—and medicine had no more answers to offer.
Hearing those words pushed me into desperation mode. My nervous system went into full fight-or-flight—and this time, fight showed up.
Nobody—and I mean nobody—was going to define my future. My family needed me. That truth became my anchor.
It took time. A lot of time. But when I remembered that my fate rests in the hands of my Creator, something shifted. That realization became the turning point in my healing journey. It was an awakening.
That awakening made one thing clear: this disease may be part of my life, but it does not define me.
I wasn’t done.
I wasn’t leaving this world without trying.
My three beautiful daughters needed their mother. My husband needed his wife. We needed each other.
Looking back now, I am deeply grateful for the support system God placed in my life during those seasons. In every trial, He brought earthly angels—people who guided me, educated me, and helped heal my mind, body, and soul.
They say every testimony begins with a test.
And now I understand—it’s not always about the outcome.
Sometimes, it’s the journey that transforms us the most.