Celebrate the Heck Out of Today

Celebrate the Heck Out of Today

This weekend, Perry and I attended the annual Hampton Hoe Down.
It is one of those rare gatherings where family, friendship, generosity, and
community all seem to come together in one place. There is live music, great food,
activities for the children, and enough warmth to make everyone feel welcome.
As I walked into this year's event, something felt different.
There were professionally made signs welcoming everyone and reminding us
that we were there to celebrate the most important things in life: family,
friendships, and relationships.
The faces were different too.
Many of the familiar faces I was accustomed to seeing weren't there.
Instead, there were children.
Families.
People I hadn't met before.
As the evening unfolded, I began to understand why.
It became clear that many of the families attending had faced extraordinary
medical challenges and difficult journeys of their own.
While standing in line for a specialty drink, I struck up a conversation with a
young woman I'll call Halie.
I had met her once before.
Halie is the oldest of four daughters. Several years ago, her father died of cancer.
More recently, she has been fighting leukemia.
For over a year, she has endured chemotherapy, hospitalizations, ICU stays, and
the countless challenges that accompany a life-threatening illness.
As we talked, she shared how chemotherapy had created significant brain fog.
"I'm having to relearn things," she told me.

She explained that she had lost so much strength that climbing stairs now
required holding onto a railing.
I asked what she was doing to regain her strength.
She smiled.
"Every day I walk on a treadmill with an incline."
"Why?" I asked.
Her answer surprised me.
"Next month I want to walk more."
Then she paused.
"And the month after that, I want to run."
Run?
I couldn't help myself.
"Run?"
She nodded confidently.
"All my friends will be returning home from their missions, and I want to be able
to play pickleball with them."
I started to say something cautiously.
Something practical.
Something responsible.
Then I caught myself.
Who was I to tell this young woman what was possible?
"Go for it," I told her. "Don't listen to people who tell you that you can't."
I loved her goal.
Not because it was guaranteed.
Because it was hopeful.

As we stood in that long line waiting for our drinks, we talked about life.
She wanted to know about me.
About Aspire.
About Duke.
About my upcoming book.
Then I asked her what she wanted to do with her life.
Without hesitation, she answered.
"I want to be a Child Life Specialist."
I smiled.
Years ago, I had taken university classes related to Child Life Specialists and
understood exactly what she meant.
"The Child Life Specialists helped me so much," she said. "I want to help other
children the way they helped me."
There she stood.
A young woman facing leukemia, the loss of her father, uncertainty about her
future, and her own mortality.
And all she could think about was how to help other people.
I walked away deeply moved.
But the evening wasn't finished teaching me lessons.
A little later, I ran into Jada.
Years ago, Jada worked as a nurse at Aspire before leaving to work in a neonatal
intensive care unit.
She immediately came over to hug me.
In her arms was the most beautiful little boy.
Round cheeks.

Bright red hair.
Big brown eyes.
The kind of smile that instantly melts your heart.
He proudly showed me the snake painted on his hand and stretched up his arm.
During the entire interaction, I never heard him speak a word.
I knew he had significant medical challenges because I occasionally spoke with
his grandmother.
But I had no idea how serious his condition truly was.
As we talked, I learned more about their journey.
This sweet little boy, whom I'll call Tate, was born with a complex heart condition
that will require multiple surgeries.
Doctors have told his family that he is doing remarkably well.
Then they delivered the kind of message no parent ever wants to hear.
One day, despite doing well, everything could suddenly change.
And if it does, it may happen quickly.
As I looked into the eyes of this young mother, my heart broke.
Because no amount of medical technology can completely remove the reality of
mortality.
We live in a time where we often assume medicine can fix almost everything.
But there are still situations where parents must learn to live with uncertainty.
Where love must exist alongside fear.
Where hope and grief somehow occupy the same space.
Through the kindness of people who had quietly stepped into their lives during
some of their hardest moments, Jada and her family had found themselves
surrounded by a community of support.

And then Jada shared something I have been thinking about all weekend.
Something I may never forget.
She told me that she has a gift that many parents don't have.
At first, I wasn't sure what she meant.
Then she explained.
A friend had recently criticized her for throwing elaborate birthday celebrations.
"You only need to throw a big party every other year," the friend had suggested.
Jada smiled as she recounted the story.
Then she said:
"I know differently."
She looked down at her little boy.
"My time with him may be limited. I hope it isn't. I pray it isn't. I hope he proves
every doctor wrong."
Then she paused.
"But because I don't know, I celebrate the heck out of everything."
I have wept thinking about those words.
I celebrate the heck out of everything.
What wisdom.
What courage.
What perspective.
Most of us live as if tomorrow is guaranteed.
We postpone joy.
We delay celebrations.
We save special moments for another day.

We assume there will be more time.
More birthdays.
More summers.
More opportunities.
But caregivers know something the rest of the world often forgets.
Tomorrow is a gift.
Not a guarantee.
This weekend, I met two extraordinary women.
One was training to run despite leukemia.
One was throwing unforgettable birthday parties while facing the possibility of
losing her son.
Neither knew what tomorrow would bring.
But both understood something profound.
The uncertainty of tomorrow is not a reason to stop living today.
In hospitals, homes, hospice programs, and living rooms across America,
caregivers perform this miracle every day.
They love without guarantees.
They hope without certainty.
They celebrate moments others might overlook.
They keep showing up against impossible odds.
And perhaps that is one of the purest forms of courage there is.
Because none of us know how many birthdays we have left.
None of us knows how many summers remain.
None of us knows how many opportunities we will have to tell someone we love
them.

Which is why Jada's words have stayed with me all weekend:
"I celebrate the heck out of everything."
Maybe we all should.stomed to seeing weren't there.
Instead, there were children.
Families.
People I hadn't met before.
As the evening unfolded, I began to understand why.
It became clear that many of the families attending had faced extraordinary
medical challenges and difficult journeys of their own.
While standing in line for a specialty drink, I struck up a conversation with a
young woman I'll call Halie.
I had met her once before.
Halie is the oldest of four daughters. Several years ago, her father died of cancer.
More recently, she has been fighting leukemia.
For over a year, she has endured chemotherapy, hospitalizations, ICU stays, and
the countless challenges that accompany a life-threatening illness.
As we talked, she shared how chemotherapy had created significant brain fog.
"I'm having to relearn things," she told me.

She explained that she had lost so much strength that climbing stairs now
required holding onto a railing.
I asked what she was doing to regain her strength.
She smiled.
"Every day I walk on a treadmill with an incline."
"Why?" I asked.
Her answer surprised me.
"Next month I want to walk more."
Then she paused.
"And the month after that, I want to run."
Run?
I couldn't help myself.
"Run?"
She nodded confidently.
"All my friends will be returning home from their missions, and I want to be able
to play pickleball with them."
I started to say something cautiously.
Something practical.
Something responsible.
Then I caught myself.
Who was I to tell this young woman what was possible?
"Go for it," I told her. "Don't listen to people who tell you that you can't."
I loved her goal.
Not because it was guaranteed.
Because it was hopeful.

As we stood in that long line waiting for our drinks, we talked about life.
She wanted to know about me.
About Aspire.
About Duke.
About my upcoming book.
Then I asked her what she wanted to do with her life.
Without hesitation, she answered.
"I want to be a Child Life Specialist."
I smiled.
Years ago, I had taken university classes related to Child Life Specialists and
understood exactly what she meant.
"The Child Life Specialists helped me so much," she said. "I want to help other
children the way they helped me."
There she stood.
A young woman facing leukemia, the loss of her father, uncertainty about her
future, and her own mortality.
And all she could think about was how to help other people.
I walked away deeply moved.
But the evening wasn't finished teaching me lessons.
A little later, I ran into Jada.
Years ago, Jada worked as a nurse at Aspire before leaving to work in a neonatal
intensive care unit.
She immediately came over to hug me.
In her arms was the most beautiful little boy.
Round cheeks.

Bright red hair.
Big brown eyes.
The kind of smile that instantly melts your heart.
He proudly showed me the snake painted on his hand and stretched up his arm.
During the entire interaction, I never heard him speak a word.
I knew he had significant medical challenges because I occasionally spoke with
his grandmother.
But I had no idea how serious his condition truly was.
As we talked, I learned more about their journey.
This sweet little boy, whom I'll call Tate, was born with a complex heart condition
that will require multiple surgeries.
Doctors have told his family that he is doing remarkably well.
Then they delivered the kind of message no parent ever wants to hear.
One day, despite doing well, everything could suddenly change.
And if it does, it may happen quickly.
As I looked into the eyes of this young mother, my heart broke.
Because no amount of medical technology can completely remove the reality of
mortality.
We live in a time where we often assume medicine can fix almost everything.
But there are still situations where parents must learn to live with uncertainty.
Where love must exist alongside fear.
Where hope and grief somehow occupy the same space.
Through the kindness of people who had quietly stepped into their lives during
some of their hardest moments, Jada and her family had found themselves
surrounded by a community of support.

And then Jada shared something I have been thinking about all weekend.
Something I may never forget.
She told me that she has a gift that many parents don't have.
At first, I wasn't sure what she meant.
Then she explained.
A friend had recently criticized her for throwing elaborate birthday celebrations.
"You only need to throw a big party every other year," the friend had suggested.
Jada smiled as she recounted the story.
Then she said:
"I know differently."
She looked down at her little boy.
"My time with him may be limited. I hope it isn't. I pray it isn't. I hope he proves
every doctor wrong."
Then she paused.
"But because I don't know, I celebrate the heck out of everything."
I have wept thinking about those words.
I celebrate the heck out of everything.
What wisdom.
What courage.
What perspective.
Most of us live as if tomorrow is guaranteed.
We postpone joy.
We delay celebrations.
We save special moments for another day.

We assume there will be more time.
More birthdays.
More summers.
More opportunities.
But caregivers know something the rest of the world often forgets.
Tomorrow is a gift.
Not a guarantee.
This weekend, I met two extraordinary women.
One was training to run despite leukemia.
One was throwing unforgettable birthday parties while facing the possibility of
losing her son.
Neither knew what tomorrow would bring.
But both understood something profound.
The uncertainty of tomorrow is not a reason to stop living today.
In hospitals, homes, hospice programs, and living rooms across America,
caregivers perform this miracle every day.
They love without guarantees.
They hope without certainty.
They celebrate moments others might overlook.
They keep showing up against impossible odds.
And perhaps that is one of the purest forms of courage there is.
Because none of us know how many birthdays we have left.
None of us knows how many summers remain.
None of us knows how many opportunities we will have to tell someone we love
them.

Which is why Jada's words have stayed with me all weekend:
"I celebrate the heck out of everything."
Maybe we all should.