One call changed the plan, not the purpose, and she’s living that purpose every day, loving her children with a courage that won’t quit. On the evening of May 7, 2018, her phone lit up with the neurologist’s number. She sat down as the words poured through the speaker, fast, clinical, final. Heat rose in her face, her chest fluttered, and her hands shook. When the call ended, she slid to the floor and cried like never before. In a single moment, she knew life had been split into a before and an after. Both of her sons had muscular dystrophy.
When she finally opened her bedroom door, she met a scene that didn’t match the storm inside her. Three children were playing, laughing, trading silly voices like nothing had changed. And in a way, nothing had. They were still her joyful kids. The diagnosis could define the path ahead, but couldn’t erase their laughter.
The next day brought hospital bracelets, needles, IV lines, and long hallways. She watched her little boys accept each test like tiny heroes. Nurses praised their bravery and tucked small gifts into their hands. She and her partner kept saying, “They really are amazing,” and meant it with everything in them. Looking back on those first days still feels unreal, as if it happened to someone else. She used to stress about traffic, bills, and toys on the floor. Now, she would have traded anything for worries that small. It seemed impossible that the world kept spinning, that people were shopping for groceries and scrolling their phones while her heart was learning a new rhythm.
But time didn’t pause. Somehow, they kept breathing and moving. Alongside the grief, something unexpected arrived: perspective. Little annoyances lost their power. They shrank the mess on the counter, the parking ticket on the windshield, the tiff over nothing. What mattered grew sharper: their kids, their marriage, the friends who showed up, and the faith that kept them standing. Pain stayed, but it came with clearer sight. She prayed they’d hold on to that clarity even on the heavy days. And day after day, they kept finding small pieces of joy, morning cuddles, a shared joke, quiet strength in the middle of tests and appointments.
Her mind kept landing on the story of Esther, the ordinary girl who became a queen and saved her people—not because she wanted a crown but because she had a calling. After the diagnosis, that story felt personal. For years, she had believed her children were entrusted to her.
Now she also understood she had been entrusted to them. She wasn’t just a mother wounded by a hard phone call. She was a mother appointed to love fiercely in this exact life. So her purpose took shape, not in palaces or headlines, but in everyday holy work: lifting sons into car seats, learning new medical terms, asking the right questions, celebrating every gain, and holding steady through setbacks. She became their advocate, soft place to land, and champion in school offices and clinic rooms. She learned courage can sound like laughter at bedtime and look like showing up again tomorrow. She still cries sometimes. She still feels the weight of what the future might bring.
But she also knows their home holds more than sorrow. It holds resilience, hope, and love that grow stronger when tested. She trusts that God writes meaning into chapters she would never have chosen, and that purpose doesn’t disappear when life gets hard; it gets clearer. She doesn’t see herself as a victim of circumstance. She sees herself as a woman called to this family, this season, this work. Maybe she wasn’t made to rule a kingdom. Perhaps she was made to raise one in her living room, where joy still sounds the same.
