Behind the Smile

Today was my pre-op appointment. I was cleared for surgery, and just like that, the countdown became real.

Four weeks to go.

Surprisingly, I walked through the appointment with a sense of peace. Not the kind of peace that comes from certainty, but the kind that comes from knowing God has already gone ahead of me. The questions were answered. The plans were made. The next steps were laid out. I left feeling calm.

Then noon came.

The pre-op nurse called.

What should have been a routine phone call quickly became a journey through 27 years of medical history.

One question led to another. Then another. Then another.

Past surgeries. Complications. Infections. Medications. Allergies. Procedures. Hospitalizations. The stories I don't often tell anymore. The memories I work hard not to revisit. The spilling out of the things that traumatized me in the past during procedures and after. And just like that, things felt different.

For a while, it felt as though every difficult chapter of my life was being read aloud over the phone. I found myself recounting things I haven't thought about in years, things that once consumed my world but have since been tucked away in the corners of memory.

By the time the call ended, I felt heavier than I had all morning.

The peace I had carried into the day suddenly had company. Fear had arrived too. Not the loud, obvious kind. The quiet kind. The kind that hides behind a smile.

Later in the day, I opened my phone to check the time, and a photo appeared. The photo is of my good friend and I after an event, in our WW2 attire, in His car ready to head home. Normal selfie, normal picture, normal life.

At first, I barely thought anything of it. But the longer I looked, the more I saw.

I saw myself smiling.

And I realized something.

Behind that smile was anxiety. Behind that smile was fear. Most people don't see those parts.

They don't see that wearing white can make me uncomfortable because it feels like a risk, and it was all but banned in my home to protect me from accidently having issues.

They don't see that riding in someone else's car can make me anxious because I don't have all of my backup supplies with me—the things that help me feel prepared if something goes wrong. The things I plan for, extra clothes and medications and jumper cables and fire extinguisher and all the things for emergencies.

They don't see how years of medical experiences can teach your body to brace for danger long before your mind even realizes it is afraid.

Trauma has a way of lingering quietly in places you don't expect.

It shows up in ordinary moments. In colors. In smells. In sounds. In phone calls. In countdowns. In photographs.

As I looked at that picture, my eyes drifted to my good friend standing beside me.

There was something about his smile that caught my attention. It was genuine. Unburdened. Joyful. Not worried. Just happy.

And as I sat there reflecting on everything the day had stirred up, I decided to do what I have had to learn to do over and over again throughout my life:

I gave it back to God.

Not because I suddenly stopped feeling afraid. Not because everything magically felt easy. But because I have learned that carrying fear and surrendering fear are two very different things.

So I sat in the quiet.

I prayed.

I reflected.

I released.

Not because it was easy. But because even in the fear jnder my smile, there was something beautiful I overcame in that photo. I overcame fear of white because I was just enjoying and not worried about it. I overcame fear of not being prepared because we didnt need anything and I could sit comfortably in another's car for once in a long time. There were wins in the moment!

And in that moment of full release, I felt God gently whisper something to my heart:

"You don't have to hold that fear anymore."

"You don't need to keep hurting."

"This is the start of something new."

"Just embrace it."

I don't know exactly what the next few months will look like. I know there will be pain. I know there will be challenges. I know there will be difficult days in a hospital room. I know there will be moments when fear tries to find its way back into my hands.

But I also know this:

For years, I have prayed for greater mobility. For less pain. For freedom from the tightness that has shaped so much of my daily life. For healing in places that have felt unchanged for a very long time.

And now, standing at the edge of this next chapter, I am realizing something beautiful.

The thing I have been praying for is finally arriving.

Maybe that's why fear has gotten so loud. Because healing often asks us to let go of what is familiar before we can receive something new. Even when what is familiar hurts.

Four weeks from now, I will walk into surgery carrying decades of scars, memories, prayers, and hopes.

But tonight, I am choosing not to carry fear. Tonight, I am choosing trust. Tonight, I am choosing to believe that God is still writing a story of redemption, even in hospital rooms.

So here we are.

Four weeks to go.

Not fearless.

But held.

Not certain.

But hopeful.

Not alone.

And ready to embrace whatever comes next.