By the time the word transplant entered the conversation for real, I had already spent years learning to live with a heart that couldn’t quite keep up with my spirit. I had pushed through hospital stays, medication changes, and too many sleepless nights to count. But this conversation… this one felt different.

It wasn’t about managing anymore. It was about fighting for more time.

My cardiologist sat with me — one of my day ones — and explained that we had reached the point where medication alone couldn’t keep my heart functioning the way it needed to. The next step was an evaluation for the heart transplant list.

I remember nodding as he spoke, but inside, my thoughts were racing. A transplant? Me? How did we get here?

It’s one thing to hear those words in a movie or read about someone else’s story — it’s another to realize you’re the one they’re talking about. My heart, the same one that had been restarted twice, the same one that had carried me through so much, was now too weak to keep going on its own.

The evaluation process was intense. It wasn’t just physical — it was emotional, spiritual, and mental. There were endless tests, scans, labs, and meetings with specialists. They examined not just my heart, but my lungs, kidneys, and every other part of me that would have to endure major surgery.

I met with social workers, nutritionists, psychologists, and surgeons. They wanted to know everything — not just about my body, but about my life. My family. My support system. My mental strength. It was humbling and overwhelming at the same time.

There were moments when I felt strong. I could tell my story confidently. I knew how far I’d already come. There were moments when I broke down. Even if you are brave, waiting for someone else’s heart to give you life is a heavy reality to carry.

Once the testing was complete, I was officially listed.

That day was strange. It was both a relief and a heartbreak. Relief, because it meant there was still a plan — still hope. Heartbreak, because being on the list meant someone else’s loss would one day become my chance to live. That paradox sits deep in your soul.

The waiting began.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. Every time my phone rang, my heart jumped. Every number that wasn’t familiar made me pause — Could this be the call?

There were hospital visits. There were close calls. There were moments when it felt like my body was giving up faster than time could catch up. I fought to stay strong. It was not just for me, but for my kids, my husband, and my parents. They had already watched me come back from the edge multiple times before.

But something inside me changed during that time. The fear started to fade, and faith began to take its place. I started seeing the waiting not as punishment, but as preparation. A season of stillness before the next miracle.

Some days, I was exhausted — mentally, physically, emotionally. The medications were heavy, the side effects were real, and my body often felt like it was betraying me. But even in the hardest moments, there was always something — or someone — to remind me I wasn’t alone.

Friends would send messages out of nowhere. My kids would crawl into bed just to hug me. My husband would hold my hand during the long nights when my heart raced unevenly. My parents would call and say, “You’ve got this, kiddo.”

And every time, I’d whisper back to myself, Yes, I do!

Being on the transplant list teaches you patience in ways you can’t explain. You learn that control is an illusion, and surrender isn’t weakness — it’s strength. You learn to wake up thankful, even when your body aches. You learn to trust timing, even when the waiting feels endless.

Because deep down, you know that somewhere out there, another heartbeat will one day sync with your own — and your story will continue.

Until that day, all you can do is live, love, and prepare your heart — both the one you have, and the one that’s coming.

The Beat Goes On… Hope Does Too!