I wrote a post on May 11th of last year, on Jeff’s birthday and Mother’s Day, after spending a long hard day in the Pediatric ICU. It has been one whole year since the gut wrenching days that changed our lives forever.

Last Saturday, on May 2nd, Hollis reached her one-year “liverversary” from her second liver transplant, and I reached one year since becoming her living donor. We celebrated and honored this day by running a 5K with the girls (in strollers) and spending time with sweet friends. Hollis ran around, climbed, jumped, played soccer, laughed, and ate cake. All very normal things for a 6-year-old — but not at all normal if you could have seen her one year ago.There were moments last spring when we truly did not know if we would make it here. Some days felt impossibly dark, filled with fear, uncertainty, and exhaustion, while prayers were whispered through tears in ICU rooms. And yet somehow, here we are.

I don’t quite have the words to fully describe the last year and just how hard it was. The debilitating anxiety, the nightmares, the PTSD demons, the constant worry and fear of what might happen next. There were moments it all felt too heavy to carry.

But today, I am just so incredibly grateful for where we are now. I’m trying to enter this next season through a lens of hope, healing, and gratitude.

A year later, Hollis is running, laughing, swimming, going to school, playing soccer, being the best big sister, and living the beautiful, ordinary childhood we prayed so desperately for. Watching her do normal kid things still brings me to tears at times. There are moments that feel almost sacred now — packing lunches, hearing her laugh from the other room, watching her run across a soccer field in the sunshine. Things I once took for granted now feel like miracles.

Medically, Hollis is doing better than we could have dreamed a year ago. Her liver labs are NORMAL — a word we will never take for granted again. Her blood counts and immune function numbers have remained stable, and her kidney function continues to improve little by little. Our incredible pediatric nephrologist cares so deeply for Hollis and truly believes she will have full kidney recovery with continued time. After so much uncertainty, hearing words like “healing,” “stable,” and “normal” still feels surreal to us. Every good lab result, every reassuring appointment, and every step forward feels like a quiet miracle we never stop thanking God for.

This year has taught us that healing is certainly not linear. Transplant doesn’t end when you leave the hospital. There are still medications, appointments, lab draws, anxiety, and moments where the trauma sneaks back in unexpectedly. I still hold my breath before every set of labs. I still sometimes wake up reliving those ICU days. I don’t know if that part ever fully leaves you after walking so close to losing your child.

But alongside the trauma, there has also been so much healing.

God has carried our family through every terrifying setback, every impossible decision, every exhausted prayer, and every milestone we once only dreamed about reaching. We will never stop being grateful for the donor family who gave Hollis her first chance at life with a new liver, for the incredible transplant team who fought for her relentlessly, and for every single person who prayed for us, supported us, fed us, donated, checked in, and carried our family when we couldn’t carry ourselves.

There truly are not words big enough for what we feel.

This year changed me forever. It changed all of us. But if there’s one thing I know now, it’s that joy and grief can coexist. Fear and gratitude can live side by side. And miracles sometimes look like a little girl simply getting to be little again.

I have felt incredibly honored to share parts of Hollis’s story over the last several years, and I hope that in some small way it has brought comfort, hope, or encouragement to someone else walking through crisis, uncertainty, or fear. One of the biggest reasons I chose to share our journey was in hopes of reaching other parents navigating the overwhelming realities of childhood chronic illness and transplant life — because it can feel unbelievably isolating at times. If our story has helped even one person feel less alone, then sharing it has been worth it.

As Hollis gets older, I also want to honor that this is ultimately her story to tell. Moving forward, I want to be increasingly mindful of her privacy and allow her to decide how much of her journey she wants shared with the world someday.

This experience has changed me in ways I’ll probably spend a lifetime understanding. It has softened me, broken me open, strengthened me, and forever changed the way I see life, suffering, faith, gratitude, and people. I don’t believe you walk through something like this and come out the same person on the other side. My deepest hope is that somehow, something beautiful can continue to come from all of this — whether that’s offering hope to another family, showing up for people differently, or using our story to bring more awareness to the need for organ donation and how it saves lives.

Thank you for following our story, supporting us, and continuing to pray for our sweet Hollis and our family as we move forward with the next season of life.