Plummeting over 411 feet, Whitewater Falls is the kind of majestic force that demands an audience. Located in Sapphire, North Carolina, and considered the highest waterfall east of the Mississippi River, the falls are both awe-inspiring and deadly. When you first arrive, it’s obvious that this natural wonder brings on-lookers of every kind: the young, the old, families, lovers, and friends. It’s often you see them picnicking, strolling, and snapping photographs, but as you venture further along the trails, the masses peel back, leaving the young and old behind. Soon you cease to hear their voices or feel their company, as the rustling leaves and distant roar of the falls replace them. With each step, you know you are getting closer.

We are on the eve of our precious daughter’s sixth birthday, and I can’t help but to be overwhelmed with unbelievable gratitude. She is the daughter we weren’t supposed to have. And here she is. She is the child we learned to let go of after ten years of infertility and loss. Yet here she is. Quite simply put, she is the impossible staring us in the face. She is God on display. She is the child breathed to life by our prayers—made room for in my broken womb.

Some seasons feel so heavy that they become like burdens—or like 10-pound weights attached to the wings of a butterfly (I’ll get to the butterflies later). For my family, and many others more, life since 2020 has felt this way. From Covid-19 and quarantines to political strife and economic instability, in every way life has felt harder. And adding an additional health trauma to the list also showed us that my illness-turned-disability has a way of seeping into every aspect of our lives, leaving nothing untouched: work, family planning, schooling, friends, social outings, transportation, access, opportunities, and reputation.

I don’t know about you, but I still love a good old-fashioned handwritten letter. What can I say? I’m an old soul, and letter-writing is still—in my humble opinion—one of the truest ways to tell someone that they mean something to you.

In 2020, when the world was shutting down from COVID, I was shutting down too, as I battled an insidious autoimmune disease, multiple surgeries, and sepsis. So, it feels rather silly to state the obvious: the past two years have been the most difficult years of our lives. Overnight, everything we thought we knew was flipped upside down. And to be honest, that kind of life-shattering change brings even the strongest of faith to their knees. I know this because it happened to me.

As you might have guessed, I have a mild obsession with words. Okay, scratch that. I am obsessed with words, and I love nothing more than to learn a new word—especially so, if that word becomes a part of me or seems as if it’s a word I have always known.