The calendar tells me it’s been six months.
Six months since the day our lives split into before and after.
Six months since fear took up residence in our everyday routines, and faith had to become more than a word, it had to become something we leaned on.
It’s been six months since his last cigarette.
Six months since a habit that once felt impossible to release was finally laid down, not perfectly, not without struggle, but with determination and courage.
And almost six months since July 3rd, the surgery that repaired his heart and quietly reshaped mine.
Recovery, I’ve learned, isn’t a straight line.
It isn’t a checklist or a finish line you cross with relief.
It’s waking up each day and choosing to trust again, trusting his body, trusting time, trusting that God is still holding what we cannot control.
When fear has gotten loud, I’ve needed something steady to return to — something rooted in truth rather than circumstance. This has been one of the quiet anchors in this season: KJV The Woman’s Study Bible (hardcover, red letter, full color, comfort print). If you’re curious, this is the one I’ve been using: https://amzn.to/495VCJO
Some days still feel tender.
I still notice things I never noticed before.
I still carry the memory of how close everything came to changing forever.
But here we are.
Six months later, and he is still here.
Healing. Resting. Laughing. Choosing life in small, faithful ways, one cigarette not smoked, one appointment kept, one ordinary morning that begins with breath and coffee and quiet.
And somewhere in these months, something else has been slowly finding its way back: us.
Not all at once. Not dramatically.
But in real, human ways, in the way we reach for each other again, sometimes awkwardly, sometimes tenderly. In the way closeness is returning, not rushed, not forced, but chosen. In the way intimacy is becoming less about obligation and more about connection, about wanting to be near, to touch, to belong to each other again.
We’re learning how to protect us more intentionally now.
To say, “This matters.”
To choose our marriage not just in words, but in time, attention, and presence.
To stop letting love live only in the leftover spaces at the end of the day.
“Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing!” — Isaiah 43:18–19
We’re not back to the old normal.
But we’re building something new, something softer and more honest, something that knows how fragile life is and loves more deliberately because of it.
This year taught me that life can change in a moment.
It taught me that love isn’t just a feeling, it’s a decision to keep showing up, even when it’s hard.
It taught me that marriage, at its best, is two people choosing each other again and again — not perfectly, but faithfully.
So as the new year approaches, I don’t feel the need for big declarations or polished resolutions.
What I feel instead is gratitude, and hope.
Hope that healing will keep unfolding.
Hope that intimacy will keep deepening.
Hope that we’ll keep choosing each other on purpose, not as an afterthought, but as a priority.
I’m not asking for easy.
I’m asking for continued.
More days. More closeness. More love that stays present, even when the path is slower than we expected.
Six months in, and we are still learning.
Still healing.
Still choosing each other.
Still held.
And for now, that is more than enough. 🌿
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