One Year Later

One year ago yesterday, I almost died.

That sentence still feels surreal. A little dramatic even. But true.

It happened on an ordinary day. I was in the kitchen pulling dinner out of the oven. My kids were around. Life was noisy and normal. Until suddenly, it wasn’t.

I had been miscarrying for two weeks. It was painful and emotionally exhausting, but I thought it was almost over. My body seemed to be handling it. I thought I was okay.

Then came the gush.

At first, I didn’t think anything was wrong. I actually thought maybe it was just the last of everything passing. I cleaned up and went back to dishing up dinner.

Then another gush. And another.

So much blood, out of nowhere. I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t know how wrong. Not yet.

I started Googling—How much is too much bleeding after miscarriage? I found mixed answers: If you soak through two pads in an hour for two hours, go to the ER. If you’re pale or dizzy or losing color, go in. But it hadn’t been two hours. My face looked fine. I told myself I was overreacting. I felt fine, just worried.

Then six pads in 45 minutes.

That’s when I knew something was wrong.

We went to urgent care, hoping we could be back before the baby’s bedtime. I told them what was happening, and they immediately sent me to the ER. In the car, my heart was racing. But I brushed it off as anxiety. I started to feel clammy…probably just nerves. I was short of breath…just panic, I told myself.

But when I got to the ER, a strange calm came over me. Almost eerie. I figured it was relief. I was finally at the hospital. I’d be okay now.

That calm? It wasn’t peace. It was shock.

As I checked in, I kept apologizing for the pool of blood I was leaving. And then the nurse took my vitals and in that moment, everything changed. Time sped up and slowed down. They rushed me into triage, then started calling codes to someone on the other end of the phone. I still felt oddly calm, almost like I had taken a sedative. I tried making small talk with the nurses as they put me in a wheelchair, still apologizing for the trail of blood behind me.

They wheeled me through a large door, moving quickly, telling me to hang in there. I was a little confused by that, but couldn’t make out what questions to ask. And then everything started to dim. My vision faded. I felt my body slumping. My hearing got muffled. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t hold my head up. I was freezing cold and desperately, desperately thirsty. It was a thirst I can’t describe. And then everything went dark.

I didn’t know it then, but my body was going into hypovolemic shock.

Later, the nurses and doctors explained: when you lose too much blood too quickly, your body starts prioritizing your most vital organs—your heart and brain. Everything else begins to shut down. That strange calm? That was my body rerouting resources. The thirst? A sign that my kidneys were struggling. The tunnel vision, hearing loss, confusion? All symptoms of a body doing exactly what it’s designed to do in a life-threatening crisis: preserve what it can, for as long as it can.

When they explained this to me, I was in awe and as I read more about it later I couldn’t help but think what an incredible design by God.

I woke up in a room surrounded by so. many. people. Nurses, doctors, on all sides of me. I caught a glimse of my husband and wished I could talk to him. I was hooked up to what seemed like 100 different things…wires, machines, bags, none of it made sense. It seemed chaotic. Messy. And silent. I couldn’t hear anything. There was a doctor looking right at me and saying something to me and I couldn’t make out any of it. Then in a rush, all the sounds came alive. Beeping. Loud talking. Drawers opening and shutting. Carts rolling. Machines whirring. And a doctor telling me to hang in there, that there was a lot going on. Someone asked me to lift my legs. I couldn’t. Someone asked me to move my arm. I couldn’t.

I looked at the doctor and said “I’m going to be okay though, right? I have five kids.” She responded “You’re in good hands. We’re doing everything we can to take care of you.” And then everything went dark and quiet again.

They estimated I lost 30–40% of my blood volume in under an hour. I had three blood transfusions. Multiple bags of fluids. An emergency D&C to remove what remained of the miscarriage, the cause of the hemorrhage.

At one point, they lost my pulse.

I remember floating in and out. Trying to speak but not being able to. Trying to stay conscious. Trying to participate, but it felt like I could only watch what was happening. The thoughts I had during those moments were crystal clear. And they were only about one thing:

My family.

My husband. My kids.

Not the places I hadn’t traveled. Not the dreams I hadn’t chased. Not the money, or the house, or the legacy.

Just more time.

It was two days before my oldest daughter’s high school graduation. Two weeks before my baby’s first birthday. And I remember thinking: I can’t ruin this for them. I can’t let my baby grow up without knowing me. I can’t go—not yet. I needed them to know how much I loved them. I needed to be here.

I think my soul begged God, please, just a little more time.

And he gave me more time.

But in the days that followed, I found myself minimizing it. Telling myself maybe it wasn’t that big of a deal. I questioned whether it had been as serious as I remembered. Maybe I was being dramatic. I didn’t actually die, after all. Maybe I had just played it up in my mind.

Then the hospital bills started coming.

Itemized statements. Long lists of codes.

Out of curiosity (and because I’m a researcher at heart), I looked a few of them up. And there it was, buried in the clinical language of insurance billing:

“Emergency lifesaving measure rendered.”

Over and over again.

No dramatization. No exaggeration. Just medical fact.

It really was that close.

And that reality washed over me like a wave.

This past year has felt like a slow exhale. A sacred unraveling. I’ve felt a sacredness in time that I never really understood before. I try to be more present. To linger longer. To pay attention to the small moments and the people I’ve been given. I don't always get it right, but I try to really see my kids. To listen better. To show up for the people who mean everything to me. Not out of obligation, but out of fierce gratitude and awe.

And I’ve found myself more honest. Less filtered. More me. I don’t want to waste any more time trying to be palatable or approved of. I don’t want to shape-shift or self-edit for the sake of fitting in.I want to be fully who God created me to be, because that’s the only version worth being. I want to be more kind. More forgiving. More gentle. More compassionate. I want to reflect God’s character more.

And I finally decided to write the book. What book? Good question.

I’ve wanted to write a book for as long as I can remember. But I always talked myself out of it. What would I say? Who would read it? What if no one cared?

But after what happened, all of that felt…irrelevant.

I’m not writing it for everyone else.

I’m writing it because God has given me something to say. Because every minute is a gift from him, and I want to use every breath He gives me to glorify Him. If He chooses to use it, to use me…I’m honored. But I’m not waiting on validation anymore.

I’m not here to impress.

I’m here because He said yes to one more day. And then another.

So I’m writing a book. I’m being present with my people. I want to walk closer with God than I ever have before. I’m asking Him to make me more like Him. To make me bold AND kind. To use whatever time I have for something real and impactful and eternal.

Because when everything else fell away, perspective shifted, and all I wanted was more time to love the people I’ve been given.

And I got just that. So I’m not wasting it.

And maybe that’s the quiet reminder I want to leave with you, too:

Life is fragile. More fragile than we think. But it's also a gift. More sacred than we treat it.

So if there’s something you’ve been waiting to do, someone you’ve been meaning to call, or a version of yourself you’ve been afraid to become, maybe today is a good day to start.

Because the things that matter most aren’t things at all.