Five months. That’s how long it has been since the virus that upended our world and shattered so many hearts began its unwelcome assault on my body. What I first assumed was a brutal hormonal headache quickly spiraled into ear pain and a sore throat. A few days later—on Thanksgiving—my entire upper body felt as though it was burning from the inside, simple tasks made me dangerously lightheaded, and I knew in my bones: this was COVID.
With my husband also deep in the trenches of illness, our little family stumbled through Thanksgiving alone. One of our four young children was sick as well. Still, we tried to preserve a sense of normalcy, clinging to small traditions for the kids’ sake. While setting the table, I suddenly struggled to breathe, my heart racing wildly for no clear reason. Fear settled into my soul for the first time. I remember sinking down onto the cold kitchen floor, desperate to catch my breath and steady my emotions.
As days passed, my husband slowly improved, as did our daughter. But in early December, days turned into weeks—and I did not get better. Each morning, I woke believing that today would be the day I turned a corner. And each day, I was painfully wrong. Then came our son Jack’s seventh birthday. One cold December night, I knelt beside the bathtub while he soaked—my fever raging, ears throbbing, arms burning, head pounding—and I knew I had to break his heart once again. Through tears, I told him his birthday would look different. Even different from the COVID-safe plans we had hoped for.
Looking into his big blue eyes, I explained we wouldn’t see family, he couldn’t play with friends, and I wouldn’t be able to take him on our cherished Birthday Date. In that moment, something fierce ignited inside me. I felt fury—not just at the countless ways COVID had stolen from all of us, but at how it was trying to steal our joy from the inside out. And right then, I decided: I would not let it. In suffering, joy matters.
December blurred past in a haze of unpredictable, frightening symptoms. COVID felt like modern-day leprosy—isolating, lonely, and heavy with fear. Yet I chose to remain a student of one steady truth: The light always wins. It slips in through the smallest cracks and floods darkness with renewal. Through messages, meals, errands, and quiet acts of kindness from friends, family, and strangers, love kept showing up. Again and again, it reminded me that light is an action—and its greatest work is often done in the ashes.
As the season grew darker, time kept moving. That’s the cruel truth about long COVID and chronic suffering: life doesn’t pause. Birthdays come. Babies grow. Holidays arrive. With Chris beside me, we chose to seek joy on purpose. Serving others became a lifeline—adopting families, filling baskets for delivery drivers, sending cards to those we missed. In suffering, serving matters.
We chased joy as we decorated the tree, read favorite stories, and planned our beloved Christmas Light Tour. When the night arrived, I was incredibly sick—but I couldn’t bear to miss it. At our final stop, a children’s farmstead light show, festive music played as lights danced across my face. My arms and shoulders felt scorched, my head pulsed, and tears streamed silently from relentless pain. Chris knew—it was time to go home.
Once again, the tears came. Once again, COVID tried to steal my joy. And once again, I refused to let it. In the days before Christmas, I dug deep. I wrapped gifts, planned breakfast, watched light shows, and rocked my little ones in their tree-covered pajamas. I worked hard to soak it all in—not just to complete tasks, but to find joy within them. Because I knew thousands of families were losing loved ones that same day. In suffering, perspective matters.
One evening, when I needed it most, the Christmas Star pierced the Kansas sky. We stopped everything, took the kids outside, and fixed our eyes upward. It felt like hope. A reminder that joy is often something we must actively seek.
After Christmas, five weeks into COVID, my symptoms surged again. Ear pain became unbearable, headaches blinding, arms aflame. Chest pain and breathlessness followed. Two nights that week, I wasn’t sure I would wake up. Then came the night an explosion-like sound ripped through my left ear, followed by blurred vision. On New Year’s Day, a compassionate doctor finally saw me—really saw me. I spent the day in the ER undergoing extensive testing. Stroke, pneumonia, and pulmonary embolism were ruled out. Still, no answers came.
Hooked to machines, labeled “COVID POSITIVE,” I felt crushing isolation despite kind eyes behind masks. And yet, I knew I’d walk out that day. Thousands would not. That knowledge filled me with grief, empathy, and deep fury at this disease. Yes—in suffering, perspective matters.
Looking back on these months, I see lessons tucked into the pain. One truth stands out clearly: Love shows up. One winter evening, my parents drove three hours just to play with our kids outside and share a picnic in the dark backyard. Watching them through the window—arms burning, heart aching—I cried. From pain. From longing. And from gratitude. In suffering, gratitude matters.
COVID is confusing, humbling, and terrifying. Five months in, progress has been slow. Some symptoms have improved; others linger daily. My energy is nowhere near normal. COVID still shadows me.
Yet my heart has changed profoundly. Suffering both weighs us down and strips life to its essentials. I’ve learned to cling to small rhythms—coffee in the morning, fresh air, a book at night. Simple joys matter. And above all, to be loved and known is the greatest gift of all.
Acts of kindness—flowers, meals, messages, presence—have reminded us we are not alone. Suffering sharpens our vision. It gifts us a lens of empathy, gratitude, and grace. And once you see life through that lens, it becomes hard to look away.
