Finding Grace in the ICU
Life has a funny way of reminding us that no matter how carefully we make our plans, we're never quite the ones holding the pen.
If you'd asked me how I imagined this season of my life unfolding, spending a week in the ICU would have been somewhere between "being chased by a goose" and "learning to juggle flaming swords." In other words, it wasn't anywhere on my list. Yet life, as it often does, had other plans, and looking back now, I can honestly say it was one of the most surreal, humbling, and perspective-shifting experiences I've ever had.
This was my first ambulance ride, my first stay in the ICU, and my first real encounter with just how quickly life can change. I still remember lying on the gurney while the doctor completed my intake. He paused, gave me a curious look, and said, "You seem to be really upbeat for your condition."
I laughed, smiled, and shrugged because I wasn't sure how else to respond. The truth was that, despite everything unfolding around me, I knew God had me. I didn't know what the outcome would be, how long recovery would take, or what the next few hours would bring, but I never felt like I was walking through any of it alone. That quiet confidence became my anchor throughout the entire experience.
It all began with pain.
Now, if you know me personally, you'll know that my relationship with pain has always been... unconventional. I've always had an unusually high pain tolerance. What I might dismiss as "just a cramp" could easily be someone else's 7/10, and I've joked for years that childbirth probably sits somewhere around a 5 on my personal pain scale.
So when I woke up that morning feeling uncomfortable, I wasn't especially concerned. I assumed I had slept wrong, needed a little more rest, or simply had to wait for whatever it was to pass. Instead of fading, however, the pain steadily intensified until it became impossible to ignore. By dinnertime, I was doubled over in agony unlike anything I'd ever experienced, crying out to God to take the pain away while telling my husband that it was finally time to take me to the hospital.
From urgent care to the emergency room, everything seemed to move at a pace that I could barely keep up with. The expressions on the doctors' faces told me more than their words did, and more than one of them essentially conveyed the same message: I shouldn't have been waiting in the emergency department—I should already have been admitted to the ICU.
That was the moment everything changed.
The next week became a blur of monitors, IV pumps, blood draws, medications, specialists, and hourly check-ins. At any given time I had four to six IV lines connected to me, not including the additional medications that came and went as needed. I spent what felt like an eternity being NPO, staring longingly at cups of water I couldn't have before finally earning the privilege of liquids and, eventually, real food again.
It's remarkable how an experience like that reshapes your appreciation for ordinary things. A sip of water becomes something to celebrate. Sitting upright without assistance feels like progress worth cheering. A warm blanket, a quiet night's sleep, or simply walking to the hallway suddenly become milestones rather than routine moments. We often don't realize how miraculous everyday life is until we're temporarily separated from it.
People have asked me whether I was afraid, and while there were certainly moments when I cried from pain and frustration, fear never truly settled in my heart. Beneath all of the discomfort was an unexpected peace because I genuinely believed that God was holding me through every moment. I never doubted His presence, even when I didn't understand why any of it was happening.
The hardest part wasn't the IVs, the endless testing, or the discomfort of being confined to a hospital bed. It was knowing that my children couldn't come visit me in the ICU. As a mother, there is a particular ache that comes from being separated from your children when all you want is to hug them, and no amount of medication can really touch that kind of pain.
Each evening I prayed for strength, courage, patience, and enough grace to make it through another night. Somehow, every morning, I found exactly what I needed waiting for me. God didn't necessarily give me strength for the entire journey all at once; instead, He faithfully provided enough for that day's challenges, and that was always enough.
I also gained an even deeper appreciation for nurses, whose compassion and dedication deserve far more recognition than they receive. They monitored every change, managed my pain, answered endless questions, explained complicated protocols, and somehow still found ways to make me laugh on difficult days. ICU nurses are definitely a high speed, low drag bunch (the sheer amount of time I heard their feet pounding the ground as code blues were coming through the speaker constantly). They cared not only for my physical recovery but also for my spirit, and I will always be grateful for the kindness they extended during one of the hardest weeks of my life.
To everyone who sent messages, checked in on me, and lifted me up in prayer, thank you from the bottom of my heart. I truly believe those prayers reached me. There were moments when I felt exhausted and discouraged, only to suddenly feel renewed determination to keep pushing forward. I became one of the patients who insisted on walking laps around the ICU whenever I was able because every step, no matter how slow, felt like another step toward going home.
Even in the middle of everything, there were moments that made me laugh. My heart rate decided it wanted to become the center of attention, earning me a cardiologist in addition to the growing list of specialists already overseeing my care. The doctors seemed endlessly fascinated that my heart was racing while I calmly smiled and answered all of their questions. Before long there were so many different physicians involved that I honestly stopped trying to remember everyone's specialty and simply trusted that, collectively, they knew exactly what they were doing.
Coming home didn't signal the end of recovery. In many ways, it marked the beginning of an entirely new phase. It took another week before I started feeling settled into my new routines of medications, injections, dietary changes, the coordination of follow-up appointments, and learning to navigate a body that suddenly had limitations I wasn't accustomed to respecting. Recovery has required more patience than I expected, but each passing day has brought a little more strength, a little more confidence, and another reminder that healing is rarely a straight line.
This year has already given me new beginnings, fresh perspectives, and a much deeper appreciation for how precious ordinary life truly is. It has humbled me, reminded me to stay rooted in the present, and shown me, again, that tomorrow is never guaranteed. While I have always considered myself someone who adapts to whatever life places in front of me, this experience carried an undeniable weight because, as nearly everyone around me has gently reminded me, I apparently came much closer to dying than I fully realized.
Oddly enough, I never felt as though my story was ending. Deep within me was a quiet certainty that God wasn't finished with me yet. There were still stories waiting to be written, people left to love, lessons still to learn, and a purpose I hadn't yet completed. That conviction gave me something to hold onto when everything else felt uncertain.
Which brings me to all of you.
If you've been wondering where I've been, this is why. I didn't disappear, forget about you, or lose my passion for storytelling. I was simply fighting my way back so I could return to the keyboard, return to the worlds we share together, and return to doing the work that fills my heart with joy.
I'll probably be moving a little more slowly than I expected at the beginning of the year, but I've come to realize that slow is still forward. There are still stories waiting to be told, characters waiting to introduce themselves, and dreams I hope to bring to life. Knowing that there are readers waiting, encouraging me, praying for me, and believing in me has been an incredible source of motivation throughout this journey, and I hope you know that your kindness has meant more than I could ever adequately express.
So perhaps that's all I wanted this little update to say.
Thank you for your patience. Thank you for your prayers. Thank you for your encouragement, your messages, and for continuing to believe in the stories I have yet to tell.
I didn't forget about you.
Far from it.
I was simply fighting to find my way back to you, and by God's grace, I'm grateful that I can finally say I'm here again.
-YD
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