To the ones who saved me...

I am 1 week away from celebrating 23 years of being a survivor—and all that has been given through this journey. So for the next week, I’m honoring 23 groups of people who have carried pieces of this story with me. Maybe these are just my words—but if they echo something in your own life, share them with your people too. Whether you’ve survived something life-altering, or you’re simply surviving each day—this is for the ones who stood beside you.

These will be raw. Honest. Grateful.

And it only feels right to begin here: Doctors and Nurses.

Dear my Care Team of Doctors and Nurses,

There are moments where life doesn’t just change—

it breaks open.

Everything familiar disappears, and you’re left trying to survive something you were never prepared to face. I was only four years old. Too young to understand what was happening—

but not too young to feel it.

Pain has a language.

Fear has a presence.

And both found me early.

My world became fire, confusion, and questions no child should have to carry.

And somehow… in the middle of all of that— God placed you there.

Not just as medical professionals.

But as people who stepped into the worst moment of my life… and chose to stay.

I don’t remember everything.

But I remember enough.

My body remembers.

My spirit remembers.

I remember not being alone.

I remember being seen—not just treated.

I remember hands that didn’t hesitate, even when my wounds were at their worst.

Eyes that didn’t look away.

Voices that stayed steady when I wasn’t.

I remember the tub room and dressing changes

The place I dreaded. The place where pain was loud and real and unavoidable. There was no pretending there. No bravery. No composure. Just a little girl overwhelmed, in pain, afraid, and unsure of what was to come. I quickly learned what was there and more fear happened in that moment.

And yet… you stayed.

You didn’t rush me through it. You didn’t dismiss the fear. You didn’t grow cold to cope.

You stepped into it with me. Again and again. You carried pieces of that pain—not because you had to, but because you chose to.

But what I also remember… is that it wasn’t all pain.

You brought life into places that felt sterile and heavy.

You sat on the floor and played games with me.

You brought toys into rooms that didn’t feel like they should hold joy—but somehow did because of you.

You found ways to get me moving—bikes down hospital hallways, small adventures just to make me feel like a kid again.

You turned moments of survival into moments of living.

And that matters more than I think you’ll ever fully know.

Whether you entered my story on the very first day—when I was rushed through those emergency room doors, and it took all your strength to hold me still so I could receive the care that would save my life…

Or in the air, during those helicopter rides when things were uncertain—when the weight of “we don’t know” filled the space…

Or in the quiet, critical moments, caring for lungs that had fought too hard against smoke…

Or when the pager went off and you didn’t hesitate—you came, knowing you were needed immediately…

Or even if you are just now stepping into this journey in more recent years—

You are part of this story.

Every single one of you.

And each of you has brought me to my knees in gratitude.

Because you didn’t give up on me—even in moments when I was ready to give up on myself.

You cared for me when my world was falling apart.

When my body was shaking from fear, from infection, from exhaustion.

When the question of “will I make it?” wasn’t theoretical—it was real.

You showed up anyway.

You stayed.

You fought for me.

You made sure I was seen, held, and cared for—no matter how uncertain things felt.

And because of that… I’m still here.

And I want to say something else—something just as important.

I’m sorry.

For the moments I fought you.

For the times I didn’t do what I was supposed to do.

For the days I was feisty, angry, overwhelmed, or just too tired to cooperate.

I was a child trying to process something bigger than I could hold. But you didn’t take it personally.

You didn’t withdraw your care.

You didn’t give up on me.

You met me in it—with patience, with gentleness, with understanding. You saw past the reactions… and cared for the heart behind them. And that kind of compassion leaves a mark just as deep as any scar.

And then… there’s something I will never forget.

Some of you prayed.

Before surgeries.

Before the unknown.

Before moments that carried risk and fear.

You stopped—and invited God into the room.

Before I even understood what prayer was… you covered me in it.

You spoke life over me.

Protection over me.

Peace over me.

And I believe with everything in me—that mattered.

Because while your hands performed the work—God guided them.

While decisions were made—He covered them.

While my body fought to heal—He sustained it.

Heaven met earth in those rooms.

And you were part of that.

You didn’t just fight for my survival.

You fought for my life.

You chose to care deeply in a place where it would have been easier to detach.

You chose softness in an environment that could harden anyone.

You chose to see me—not as a case—but as a life worth knowing, worth fighting for, worth believing in.

And because of that—

I am not just alive.

I am living.

The little girl you cared for grew up.

She walks.

She speaks.

She dances.

She lives a full, bold, beautiful life—one that once may not have seemed possible.

And every step I take carries something you gave me.

Your long nights.

Your steady hands.

Your laughter in hard places.

Your patience.

Your presence.

Your prayers.

You may never fully see the impact of what you’ve done.

But I am one of those impacts.

A life still unfolding.

A story still being written.

A testimony that continues—because you showed up when it mattered most.

What you do is sacred.

Not because it’s easy—

but because you step into the broken places and choose to bring healing anyway.

Because you meet people at their most vulnerable—and you stay.

Because you carry science and compassion, strength and tenderness, skill and heart—all at once.

And that… changes everything.

So from the deepest place in my heart—

Thank you.

For showing up when I couldn’t.

For holding steady when I wasn’t.

For bringing light into some of my darkest moments.

For treating me like more than a patient.

For seeing me as a person.

For covering me in care—and in prayer.

I carry that with me.

I always will.

With more gratitude than words could ever fully hold,

Thank you.