One of the hardest things about this month has been learning how to talk about Cassidy in the past tense. He was my person. He is my person. And I’m still trying to understand how both of those things can be true at the same time.

I never imagined I’d be asking for help like this. Insurance is covering the bare minimum. Cassidy’s care needs are bigger than what they’ll approve. I’m physically breaking trying to hold everything together — and loving him is bigger than my pride. We’re still fighting. But we need support to keep going. I shared everything — the hard numbers, the hard decisions, the real need. If you can donate or share, it means more than you know.

We celebrated our anniversary in an infusion chair.

The weeks since have stretched us in ways I didn’t know were possible — physically, emotionally, spiritually. Loving someone through this isn’t soft or poetic. It’s lifting, changing diapers, making impossible decisions, and learning how to accept help you don’t even know how to ask for.

The 24 hours before we arrived in Houston were some of the scariest we’ve had yet. A routine lab turned into an emergency, a flight changed overnight, and by the end of the day Cassidy was being admitted to the ICU at MD Anderson Cancer Center. This is how we got here—and why it mattered.

Gratitude has been showing up in unexpected ways—like being able to sit with Cassidy during chemo, starting little routines just for myself, and even planning a birthday trip around his favorite thing: baseball. ⚾💙 This week I’m writing about the small joys and quiet mercies that remind us we’re still living in the middle of all this.