I realized then that I had never truly thanked her.
Not with clarity.
Not with understanding.
Not with the gratitude that comes only when you look back from a place of safety.
So I reached out to the hospital, unsure if a message would ever reach her.
It did.
A few days later, a small envelope arrived in my mailbox—my name written in handwriting so familiar it made my heart flip.
Inside was a handwritten note.
She remembered me.
She remembered my son.
And she wrote that watching parents find their strength again—after believing they had none left—was the most precious reward she could imagine.
Her words were simple. But they carried weight.
A reminder that some angels don’t appear with wings or miracles.
Sometimes they wear scrubs.
Sometimes they knock softly on your door in the middle of the night.
Discover more
Light
Sometimes they heal you in ways you don’t fully understand until years later.
Now, when life feels heavy, I think of her.
Of those nights when hope felt impossibly far away and she quietly dragged it back within reach.
Because of her, I have learned:
Light doesn’t always arrive loudly.
Sometimes it sits beside you in the dark—expecting nothing, offering everything.
And the best way to honor it… is to pass it on.
