My darling Lizzy,
Papa wrote this on the night of July 2nd, 2025 — the eve of the day we were going to see you for the first time at twenty weeks. You were quietly growing inside mummy, and papa was falling apart in all the ways he was trying to hide from her. By the time you read this, you’ll know the whole story. But what I want you to know right now — what I need you to carry with you — is this: loving someone fiercely doesn’t mean you always have the strength to show up the way you want to. Sometimes love is sitting in the dark, feeling broken, and still believing in the morning. That’s what papa was doing this night. Believing in you. Believing in us. Even when it was hard to breathe.
I love you my beautiful girl!
Originally written on July 2, 2025
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18
The brave words that carried me through this morning now feel far away.
But as night fell, fear replaced them. Insecurity crept in quietly and settled deep in my chest.
They filled every conversation today—with my team, with friends, with family. Those words. They felt so real this morning.
My left side is deteriorating quickly, and with it comes a flood of buried thoughts I hadn’t dared to fully examine. I told my team this morning about my ALS. There were follow-ups—honest, heartfelt, hard one-on-one conversations. Everyone was supportive. Everyone said the right things. Meant them, too. I know they did.
But tonight is different. Tonight, the silence feels heavy. Tonight, I feel broken.
Earlier this evening, Alex, Mary, and their girls came to visit. The girls were loud and full of life and the room felt warm. It meant the world to us. And then I was gone. I fell asleep on them. My body couldn’t keep up with my heart.
And yet… I still believe I’m the hero of my own story. I believe a happy ending awaits—maybe not the one I imagined, but one that’s beautiful, defiant, full of grace. I believe it even as the odds pile up against me.
Grace and I prayed together before bed. Her words, as always, brought comfort and clarity. She reminded me—again—of her role as my helper. It’s something she’s said often during this journey, but tonight it struck a deeper chord. Because tomorrow, we mark twenty weeks—a milestone in our pregnancy. We’ll see our baby again in the ultrasound room, and everything inside me wants that to be the headline.
But instead, it’s my diagnosis that keeps stealing the spotlight.
I feel guilty.
Guilty that she’s taking care of me when I should be the one taking care of her.
Guilty that our baby is quietly growing while my body loudly fails.
Guilty that Grace—the most radiant human I know—isn’t getting the attention and rest she deserves.
I love being the center of attention… unless Grace is in the room. And right now, it’s killing me that I can’t do more for her. For them.
But I’m still here. And I’m still fighting.
“Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.” — Isaiah 40:30-31
Secret of My SucCecil 