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.