Yesterday, I heard Evy laughing hysterically in the pantry. The kind of laugh that’s full-bodied and uncontrollable—the kind that makes your heart swell before you even know what’s going on.
I walked in to find a full bag of cereal dumped across the floor. He was kicking it, clapping, completely delighted with himself. His face beaming. His whole little body alive with joy.
But me?
I was already stretched thin. Worn out by work deadlines, household responsibilities, and the constant mental load of trying to be everything for everyone. And in that split second, I felt my body tense—the way it always does when life feels too loud and too heavy.
But then I looked at him. Really looked.
This little boy. The one I wasn’t sure I’d ever get to hold. The one I begged God for. The one I sat beside in the NICU, praying, pleading, begging, screaming to heaven for healing and hope.
And now… here he was. Alive. Laughing. Making messes. Covering my pantry floor with pink cereal and filling the air with laughter that could shake the walls.
That’s when it hit me.
This was the miracle.
This was the answered prayer.
This was the moment I once longed for with everything in me.
And so, I sat in the mess.
I laughed with him.
And I let an $8 box of cereal remind me how far we’ve come.
