After that MRI, life became a series of balancing acts. It involved balancing faith and fear, strength and exhaustion, and hope and heartbreak.

Every day started with gratitude, but also with a sense of awareness. Awareness of the device humming quietly under my skin. Awareness of medications lined not so neatly on the counter. Awareness of my body’s signals — the faint and not so faint chest flutters, the shortness of breath, the days I woke up feeling fine and the ones I didn’t.

But through it all, I lived.

Not just survived — I started to truly live.

I cheered my kids on at games. I ran around doing the “mom things” I refused to give up. I showed up for the people I loved even when I didn’t feel 100%. I kept working, laughing, and finding ways to make light of the heaviness. If there’s one thing this heart of mine has learned, it’s that joy is a choice — even when life doesn’t make it easy.

My pacemaker and defibrillator became part of me, like a tiny guardian angel tucked inside my chest. Every time it paced or corrected my rhythm, I was reminded that I had technology and grace working together to keep me here. There were days I felt like a walking miracle — and other days, like a ticking clock.

The truth is, living with heart failure is both a blessing and a burden. There’s gratitude for every heartbeat, and frustration for every limitation. I can’t always do what I used to. Some days, fatigue hits like a wave. Other days, anxiety tried to whisper lies about what might come next.

But I refused to let fear write my story.

I kept showing up- For my family, for myself. For this life I fought so hard to keep.

My husband became my rock in a way only someone who has seen you at your weakest can be. He carried the weight when I couldn’t. He learned my meds, my warning signs, my moods, my fears. He stayed — not because it was easy, but because love doesn’t walk away when things get hard.

My dad never stopped being my protector. For years after, he would still text me to make sure I’d taken my meds, to remind me to rest, or to say “I love you, kiddo.” It became our rhythm — one that meant more than words could ever say.

The doctors — my “day ones” — continued to monitor me closely. There were medication adjustments, diet changes, and endless tests. There were setbacks too: ER visits, scares, days when I wondered if my heart was giving up again.

But each time I hit a wall, I reminded myself of something that carried me from day one: You’ve already survived the impossible. You’re still here for a reason.

Over the years, my condition slowly progressed. It was no one’s fault — just the nature of heart failure. My heart was strong in spirit, but tired in function. We began having conversations I never thought I’d have — about future interventions, advanced therapies, and eventually, the possibility of a heart transplant.

That word — transplant — felt both terrifying and hopeful.
Terrifying because it meant my heart was running out of options.
Hopeful because it meant there might still be one more miracle ahead.

I didn’t know when or how that chapter would unfold, but I knew one thing for certain: God hadn’t carried me this far to let me fall now.

So I continued to live. I celebrated birthdays, holidays, and quiet mornings with my kids. I laughed loud, loved harder, and let myself rest when I needed to. I learned to ask for help — something that didn’t come naturally to me — and I learned that strength sometimes looks like surrender.

Those years between the MRI and the transplant journey taught me more than any book or doctor ever could. They taught me patience. They taught me to find peace even in waiting. And they taught me that sometimes the bravest thing you can do… is simply keep going.

Because every heartbeat, even the broken ones, is still proof of life… The Beat Goes On!