Then came the shame. Invitations ignored. The birthday cake was left untouched. She smiled through meals she couldn’t partake in, knowing that explaining her struggle hurt more than remaining silent.

When they finally diagnosed her…gastroparesis, perhaps, or a severe cyclical vomiting pattern…she cried.

Not from fear, but because the pain finally had a name.

She still eats cautiously. She carries anti-nausea medication in her purse like a hidden secret. She sniffs her food before taking a bite. She mourns the days when food symbolized love instead of a threat.

Yet she is creating something new. She is relearning joy in safe meals. She is letting go of the guilt associated with small portions, special needs, and a slower pace.

She forgives herself now…for canceling plans, for fearing forks, for surviving something unseen.

And I observe her. Carefully. Lovingly. The way you watch someone you almost lost…not to death, but to a life that forgot how to feel safe in their own skin.

I know this is heavy, and I understand that the road ahead may feel like a tangle of loss and unanswered questions. But please hear this: you are not broken because you are hurting; you are not weak because you are afraid. You are living through something real, and survival itself is a kind of grace. You are allowed to struggle, you are allowed to hope, and you are allowed to not have all the answers today. Whatever comes next, you do not face it empty-handed; you carry every moment of love that shaped you, and that will always be enough to keep going.