Kansas woke up covered in snow this weekend, the quiet kind that softens everything it touches. The temperatures have stayed below freezing, and the world outside my bedroom window feels paused, wrapped in white. It’s beautiful in a way that feels almost sacred. Inside our house, though, it’s been a different kind of storm.
We’re coming off influenza A, and quite possibly COVID as well. At this point, we don’t even test anymore; there’s nothing to treat it with, and it feels less like a virus you fight and more like one you endure. Like the common cold, only ten times worse. The kind of sick that seeps into your bones, steals your energy, and leaves you feeling wrung out and dehydrated, no matter how much you drink.
Which is why my ice water tastes so satisfying this morning.
There’s something almost luxurious about it: the cold, the clarity, and the relief. When your body has been fighting for days, maybe weeks, simple things feel enormous. Water. Warm blankets. Quiet. The ability to breathe without coughing.
Sleep, though, has been harder to come by.
Lately, I’ve been waking in the middle of the night, my mind already racing ahead to the next day. The list of things to do never seems to shrink: appointments, work, school, health logistics, parenting, paperwork, life. I lie there counting the hours left before morning, knowing they won’t be enough.
Living with Stage 5 Chronic Kidney Disease has a way of stretching time and compressing it all at once. Some days crawl. Others disappear before I can catch my breath. And the nights are where the weight of it all tends to settle.
Still, this snow feels like permission.
Permission to slow down.
Permission to rest.
The purity of the white outside my window reminds me that winter has always been a season for reset. Fields lie dormant before they grow again. Trees conserve their strength. The earth itself pauses, not because it has nothing to do, but because rest is part of survival.
I’m trying to learn that lesson.
This week, when I get paid, I’ll finally order the transplant donor magnet I’ve been wanting for my car. It feels like a small thing, but it’s also not small at all. It’s a quiet declaration: I’m still searching. I’m still hopeful.
I do wonder if it will even stick to my car; it’s dirty, coated in winter grime and road salt, and frozen stiff from the cold. But maybe that’s fitting. Even imperfect surfaces can carry important messages.
This journey, the one toward dialysis, toward transplant, toward whatever comes next, is not one I would have chosen. It’s a darker path than I ever imagined myself walking. And yet, I’m still here. Still breathing, still believing.
I trust God with all my provisions. The seen and the unseen. The medical ones. The emotional ones. The strength it takes to get up and keep going when fear creeps in quietly. I still pray. Not always eloquently. Not always bravely. But consistently.
Sometimes the prayer is nothing more than “Please be near.”
Sometimes it’s gratitude for snow, for water, for another morning.
And sometimes it’s hope, whispered with crossed fingers and a tired heart: that school might be cancelled tomorrow 🤞🙏, that the world might give me just a little more space to rest.
This blog is part of that rest.
Part of telling the truth about what it means to live with CKD — not just the lab numbers and diagnoses, but the ordinary moments. The exhaustion. The faith. The beauty that still shows up in unexpected places.
If you’re here because you’re walking this road too, I hope you feel less alone.
If you’re here because you love someone who is, I hope this helps you understand a little more.
And if you’re here simply because you stumbled upon my story, thank you for reading. Thank you for holding space. Winter won’t last forever. And neither will this.
For now, I’ll keep drinking my ice water. Watching the snow. Trusting God. And hoping tomorrow brings rest.
Closing Prayer and Reflection
I will continue to trust God through Chronic Kidney Disease, through dialysis preparation, and through the long wait for a kidney transplant. No matter the season, I believe He is still writing this story.
With faith, hope, and gratitude 💚
