If you had told me seven years ago, as I sat daily watching my son fight and grow, that I would one day return, I would have laughed. I would have wondered why. Return to volunteer? To drop things off? That I could imagine. But to return because this is my job—because this is my calling— that is something I never would have believed. I did say back then that with all the donations and support we received, I wanted to give back. I didn’t know how. But now I can say it clearly: God knew.

I am constantly in awe of where life has taken me—how a woman who often changed jobs can now stand firmly and say she loves her work so much it doesn’t feel like work at all. It feels like purpose. I had been back to the NICU once since having Asher, for the read-a-thon. I remember stepping off the elevator and into the purple hallway. It was in that exact moment that I realized we had been back in the hospital since discharge—but never on that floor.

There was a flood of emotion, though I didn’t fully process it then. What I did know was this: I was filled with joy because we were on the other side of the purple hallway. It wasn’t until a mom approached me and shared her story—how Asher’s book had resonated with her. I noticed his stickers on her luggage and water bottle as we talked. Then she hugged me, and something inside me cracked open.

It all came rushing back. I felt her. And for the first time, I was standing with someone who truly got it— and maybe, for the first time, I was really getting it too.

More recently, I’ve been able to connect with families even more deeply. The day my badge granted access to the same space my bracelet once did. I expected the emotions to come crashing in—to cry, to need a moment, to feel everything all at once. But instead, there was joy. Yes, a sensory overload I had to adjust to—but emotionally, that was it. I questioned myself. Did I miss something? Why wasn’t I overwhelmed? Why didn’t I cry standing near his bed space? Was I detached? Did my emotions stay behind the day we discharged? What I’ve learned is this: As I hold space for families, I am also learning how to hold space for myself. My process is mine alone. Easy to say—hard to accept. No one can tell you how to process your journey. I believe I will forever be processing and re-processing.

There have been days when I’ve supported a family and walked away feeling like they unknowingly supported something inside of me. Something I didn’t even know I needed. That is what community does. That is what growth looks like. I return, I listen, I learn—about experiences that weren’t mine—while choosing to sit fully present in the moment with others. In the sunshine and in the rain. Sometimes when the sun is shining and rain is falling at the same time. I am here for all of it.

One thing I’m grateful my therapist suggested: at the end of the day, I take off my shoes, my shirt, and my badge and place them in the back seat of my car. A transfer of the day before I even leave the parking lot. It doesn’t always work—but the separation matters so I can return fully the next day. I had been waiting—without forcing—for the moment my worlds would collide. I knew something would break. I could feel it. But it wasn’t his bed space. It wasn’t the sounds. It wasn’t even a smell. It was The Ronald McDonald House. I walked in to drop something off, and when they led me toward the rooms, I crossed that threshold—and I broke. The crash finally came. That space held something different. While our world was changing, it was where I went to breathe, to regroup. The purple hallway held my prayers and tears—but that doorway held my survival. I let it all out. The buildup needed release. I explained to the woman beside me why I stood there unraveling. And in that moment—like so many others—I was reminded again of community.

The flyer above was taken on Asher’s birthday (Mother’s Day). It was held at The Ronald McDonald House.

The woman who helped me seven years ago was no longer there. But this woman was. Holding space—just as I now do for others. Community is beautiful. Some people feel like siblings you hold close forever. Others are like neighbors you wave to but never truly know. Yet there is always an exchange—a brief collision at just the right moment—to remind you that you are here and that things will be okay.

What does okay mean? That I don’t always know. I only know what I pray for, what I believe, and that my God is more than enough. And so now— I walk down that purple hallway with joy.