Ten years. Ten years since I kissed her sweet little face that I loved so dearly. Ten years since I did one of the hardest things I’ve ever done - laying my four-month-old baby in the arms of a stranger and watching them walk away. Ten years since seeing my sweet little girl for a second first time… and falling in love with her new smile while my heart quietly mourned her original one at the same time. Before that day, I had already kissed that tiny face thousands of times. I had memorized every curve of her little smile - the one that would only be mine for four short months. Life was busy back then. My husband was serving in a line unit in the Army, which meant our days could swing between incredibly boring and incredibly stressful (if you know, you know). Most of my days were spent chasing a very energetic toddler who loved life with his whole heart. And then one day, I just knew - I was pregnant again. My first baby was only fourteen months old, and I wasn’t exactly planning to add another little blessing so soon. In fact, my husband had hoped we might wait until we were out of the Army before growing our family again. But God had other plans. Looking back now, I can see they were very good plans. The first half of the pregnancy was a little rough, mostly because slowing down wasn’t really an option with a toddler running around. But we managed, and eventually the day came for our 20-week anatomy scan. I was nervous and excited all at once. The technician took all the measurements and then told us the news - it was a girl. I was thrilled. A boy and a girl felt like the perfect little pair. Later that same day we headed to a mandatory “fun day” with my husband’s unit. Life felt normal. A week later, just a couple of hours before my husband was due home, I got a call from my OB. She had news about my baby girl. I don’t remember every detail of that conversation, but I remember the moment she told me that our daughter would be born with a cleft lip - and possibly a cleft palate. My world stopped. What did this mean? Would she be able to eat? Would we be able to breastfeed? Would she be healthy? Fear rushed in faster than answers. I remember calling my mom, completely overwhelmed and not knowing what to do. I wondered if I had done something wrong - or failed to do something I should have. I felt like I was spiraling. When my husband finally got home that evening, I broke the news to him. From that point forward, the rest of the pregnancy carried a weight of unknowns we had never expected. During my third trimester, my husband began the process of leaving the Army. We decided to move back to Conroe so we could be close to Texas Children’s Hospital in the Houston Medical Center. Texas Children’s is world-renowned, and we wanted the best possible care for our little girl. So late in my pregnancy, we packed up our apartment in Colorado. My husband loaded the biggest Penske truck we could rent, my sweet mother-in-love came up to help us move back, and we began the long drive back to Texas. Our plan was simple: get settled, get comfortable, and wait for baby. Of course, life had other plans. At the last minute we learned my husband would have to remain in Colorado for another month before taking terminal leave and joining us in Texas. That was a hard day. Eventually he made it home - and two weeks later, ten days after her due date, Ava made her debut. It was my quickest delivery. My water broke around 7 p.m., and she was born just after 2:30 in the morning. I will never forget the moment they placed her on my chest. I was instantly in love. And her little cleft lip was perfect to me. We came to the hospital prepared with the two bottles most recommended for cleft babies - which turned out to be a very good thing, because the hospital didn’t actually have anything designed for feeding cleft babies. Ava took to the Haberman bottle immediately, and we all began learning together what feeding her would look like. I was determined to give her the best start I could, so I pumped. That journey lasted fifteen months. When we were discharged a few days later, we brought our sweet little girl home to meet her big brother. Life during that season was not easy. My husband was adjusting to civilian life. I was battling postpartum depression. Ava had weekly appointments downtown with the cleft team for her NAM device (Nasoalveolar Molding). We still see that orthodontist today - he’s one of our favorites. And Charlie, our toddler, was simply thrilled to have a new little friend. Eventually the day came for Ava’s first surgery. She was four and a half months old. We arrived early that morning, and she was one of the first surgeries scheduled that day. Waiting for updates felt like torture, but finally the moment came when we were allowed back to see her in recovery. Seeing her face for the first time after surgery was both beautiful and heartbreaking all at once. It’s hard to explain that feeling. Her new little smile was incredible - and I was deeply grateful for the skill of the surgeons who had repaired her lip so beautifully. But there was also a quiet ache in my heart knowing the smile I had kissed every day for four months was gone. We stayed overnight to make sure she could eat - which she did like the absolute champ she is - and the very next day we were able to bring her home. She healed beautifully and quickly began chubbing up even more. There were more surgeries ahead of us in the years that followed. But this first one was the hardest. It was the moment my little girl’s face changed. I am endlessly grateful for the incredible cleft team who cared for Ava and for the beautiful outcome of her lip repair. But if I’m being honest… A small part of me will probably always miss that original smile. Ten years later, that tiny baby girl is now a brave, funny, strong-willed kid who lights up a room with that same smile. Her journey with cleft care isn’t completely finished. There have been more procedures and surgeries along the way, and there will still be a few more ahead of us in the coming years. That’s simply part of the road families like ours walk. But looking back now, I can see so clearly how faithful God has been through every part of it. Through the fear when we first heard the diagnosis. Through the long appointments and waiting rooms. Through the surgeries and recoveries. And through the quiet strength of a little girl who handled it all far better than her parents ever did. Ten years ago today, a surgeon repaired Ava’s lip. But the courage, the resilience, and the joy in that smile… those have always been hers. Happy 10-Year Smileversary, Ava! Your smile has always been worth it.

The last few months have been… a lot. After Ava’s surgery, life didn’t slow down the way I imagined it might. There have been follow-up appointments, healing, and still a few unknowns surrounding her bone graft that we’re waiting to see play out. And while all of that was unfolding, life around us kept moving. Between our family and some close relatives, we found ourselves in the ER three different times in the span of three weeks. Homeschool keeps moving forward, the candle business continues to require attention, and ordinary life somehow keeps threading itself through the middle of it all. Some seasons of life feel steady and predictable. This one does not. Right now, it feels like we’re standing in the middle of a storm of unknowns. Family dynamics, health questions, big life decisions still sitting in the distance without clear answers yet. The kind of season where you can feel the weight of things you can’t fix or control. And if I’m being honest, there have been moments where the chaos is loud, and the storm inside my chest threatens to drown me. But it never fails. In the proverbial eye of the storm, when I feel like I couldn't be any more broken and beaten, God stoops down and whispers to my spirit: “I am still here. I am still God. Just rest.” It's not the kind of rest we plan. It 's not a beachside vacation full of sunshine, no phones, and family (although that would be nice). It's the kind of rest that defies the chaos swirling around. It's the kind of rest that quiets the storm inside my chest even when the storm outside my chest still rages. It doesn't make everything all better, but it anchors me. And the more I sit with that word - rest  - the more I realize that the kind of rest Scripture talks about is very different from what we usually picture. Biblical rest isn’t just about stopping or taking a break. It ’s about the absence of striving . It’s the moment when we stop trying to carry things that were never ours to carry in the first place. It’s laying down the endless mental calculations, the “what ifs,” the attempts to control outcomes we cannot control. It ’s trusting that God is still God even when life feels uncertain. Hebrews talks about entering God’s rest, and the more I think about it, the more it feels like an invitation to loosen our grip on the things we keep trying to hold together. Not because the storm disappears. But because we remember who holds the wind and the waves. There are still unknowns in front of us. There are still things we’re praying through. Still decisions ahead. Still parts of life that feel messy and unresolved. The storm outside hasn’t passed. But I’m slowly learning that biblical rest isn’t the absence of storms. It ’s the absence of striving. It’s the moment where I stop trying to control outcomes I was never meant to control in the first place. It ’s loosening my grip on the endless mental calculations - the “what ifs,” the attempts to fix everything, the pressure to hold everything together. And instead, simply remembering who God is. Not the God of tidy, predictable lives. The God who sits with us right in the middle of the chaos and reminds us that He is still sovereign over all of it. The storm may still rage. But I don’t have to drown in it. Because even here - in the middle of it - God is still God. And for now, that is where my rest lives.

We’re Home It’s strange how simple those words are, considering how much weight they carry. Ten years ago, this moment felt impossibly far away. I remember staring at the timeline, barely keeping my head above water, knowing I didn’t have the bandwidth to think about the next month, let alone the next decade. Back then, survival mode was the only mode. The Early Years of Our Cleft Journey The first few years were rough. Not gonna lie. Learning how to use the Haberman bottle, figuring out Ava’s eating rhythms, chasing an energetic toddler, navigating postpartum depression, adjusting to civilian life after the army, moving back to Texas, and walking through two reconstructive surgeries. It was a lot to carry all at once. And some days, it felt like I was carrying it alone. 😅 And yet. Somehow. Here we are. A full decade later. Time didn’t stop, even when I felt frozen. Life kept going. Slowly, things got better. Easier in some ways. Ava’s cleft journey faded into the background as her lip and palate healed beautifully, her food issues improved, and her ears never gave us any trouble. That still feels like a small miracle. I’m endlessly grateful for a healthy, strong, beautiful girl, and for how the Lord restored and strengthened my bond with her through all of it. The Night Before Surgery This most recent surgery felt like a full-circle moment. The night before surgery came faster than I expected. Our arrival time was moved up at the last minute, which meant an even earlier morning. Not my favorite. But less waiting, and less time for her to be hungry, so I’ll take it. Before bed, we watched Super Mario Bros , her favorite, and she snuggled up next to me. I could tell she was a little nervous but also soaking up the one-on-one time. Some days I get so caught up in how fast she’s growing that I forget how much I still love those quiet snuggles. Then came a brief panic when we couldn’t find Maizy Daisy, her one favorite stuffy. I was already spiraling until she found it tucked away in the closet. No idea how it got there, but crisis averted. 😅 Everything was packed. The truck mostly loaded. Just a few things left for the morning. And once the house was quiet, I found myself fighting the urge to go hold her just one more time. Motherhood does that to you. This wasn’t a terrifying, life-or-death surgery. Not something like a heart transplant. And still, it was hard. Emotions don’t always make sense, especially when you’re a mama. I turned the monitor on for the first time in nearly five years, told myself to eat, hydrate, and sleep. 5:15 was coming whether I was ready or not. Spoiler. My stomach had other plans. 🙄 Surgery Day and a Different Kind of Waiting Matt and I woke up before our alarm and got a head start. I grabbed a protein bar and some milk while getting ready. Ava was up by 5:25, calm and steady, and we were in the truck by 5:45. We hit traffic and still made it with fifteen minutes to spare. Small win. Pre-op was easier than I remembered. Probably because she isn’t a baby anymore. No pumps. No bottles. No juggling a crying newborn. Just a confident big girl. Maizy Daisy got to go back with her too, which helped more than I can explain. After almost two hours, it was time. The surgical team came in for final checks, then took her back. She looked like an absolute rockstar surrounded by her entourage, and my heart just about burst. Matt and I headed to the waiting room. Miss Ashley from Child Life came back with the iPad and told us Ava did amazing with the IV and was asleep within minutes. Once we knew she was under, we grabbed cafeteria food, wandered the gift shop, and somehow an entire hour disappeared. We even found a little stuffy to bring home for her. Marriage, Healing, and Lockstep Faith And somewhere in all that waiting, something else stood out to me. The first two times we walked through surgeries like this, it felt like Matt and I were coexisting in the same space but living in separate worlds. Each fighting our own battles, processing fear in our own ways, just trying to survive. This time was completely different. We were in sync. Fully. Not because we needed to fill the silence, but because we were in lockstep the entire time. We’ve done so much healing and growing, both individually and as husband and wife. Jesus gets all the credit for that. Truly. The difference was night and day, and I can’t begin to explain how healing that was for my own heart. It never ceases to amaze and humble me to see how much Jesus has restored in our little family. There just aren’t words. 🥹🥰 Recovery, Home, and Small Wins The surgery status board decided to test my patience, showing when surgery started but never updating after that. After three hours, I finally went to surgery reception and learned she was finishing up and heading to PACU. Relief doesn’t even touch it. When we finally got to see her, she was groggy and loopy, but still goofy and kind to everyone. Mary, our PACU nurse, was incredible. We were moved towers for our overnight stay, which wasn’t ideal, but Mary and Miss Tammy made it so much better. Good nurses truly make all the difference. We were discharged a few hours early the next day and were home before noon. Huge win. The first four days post-op, Ava slept in our room. We were up every three hours with pain meds, because I refuse to fall behind on pain. Once the swelling went down. Which honestly wasn’t as bad as I expected. We decided it was time to get back to normal life. She moved back into her room with her little sister, big brother moved back into his room, and everyone started sleeping better. Last night marked a big milestone. She had Motrin at 11pm when Matt and I went to bed and didn’t need anything again until 9:30 the next morning. Huge win. One of the funniest memories from this stretch has been reminding Ava to slow down while walking. There’s a Mickey Mouse short where Goofy’s grandma shuffles along saying, “here comes grandma, here comes grandma.” That line has become our family mantra anytime she starts moving too fast. 🤪 Nine Days Post-Op and Grateful Beyond Words Today marks nine days post-op, and she’s recovering beautifully. Very little hip soreness. Very manageable pain at her surgical site. The liquid diet has honestly been the hardest part, especially since she’s never been much of a soup person. We have a follow-up with her surgeon early next week, and we’re hoping to be cleared for soft foods, which would make things much easier. All in all, I’m beyond happy with how she’s doing. And I’m deeply grateful. For her healing. For the breakthroughs. And for the growth the Lord has worked in me, in my marriage, and in our family through this process. Ten years ago, I couldn’t imagine this moment. But here we are. We’re home. 💛