Today feels like a quiet miracle. After weeks of uncertainty, fear, and whispered prayers in the dark, Dad is finally up and walking again. Just seeing him standing there, steady on his feet, wearing that oversized hoodie with a hint of a smile on his face—it fills my chest with something I can only describe as pure, soul-deep gratitude. There were days I wasn’t sure we’d get here. Days when his body seemed too weak and the pain too loud. When every step felt like an impossibility, and every night I went to sleep afraid of what tomorrow might bring.
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But here he is, still fighting. Still standing.
The road has been rough—setbacks, near-falls, terrifying infections, and the slow, painful erosion of strength that aging brings. But today proves that the story isn’t over. His determination, quiet but strong, kept us moving forward when everything else seemed to stall. I don't know what the future holds—none of us do. But if we can just keep avoiding infection, keep preventing another fall, I really believe there’s still more life, more laughter, and more precious moments ahead.
I look at him now and see not just an elderly man recovering from another setback, but the same dad who once carried me on his shoulders, the one who never stopped showing up for me—even when his body started failing him. And now it’s my turn. My honor. To show up for him.
We’ve made it this far. And that, in itself, is a gift. One I won’t take for granted. 💖🙏🌈
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