The beginning of one of the biggest challenges of my life started in the dark.
I was standing in the water at the edge of Lake Ontario at 11:00 PM. The air was cool, and the water a bit cooler. My crew was gathered on the boat beside me, quietly preparing for the long night and day ahead. The lake stretched out into darkness, and somewhere on the other side was the shore I hoped to reach.
I stood with my hands on my hips, mentally preparing for what was ahead. I took a breath and took my first few strokes. The cold hit immediately, and after a few minutes, the rhythm started to settle in. Stroke after stroke, the shoreline and lights of Niagara-on-the-Lake behind me slowly disappeared.
Somewhere in those early hours of swimming, I found myself thinking about a very different beginning, five years earlier, when I woke up after my transplant.
I remember lying in that hospital bed feeling like a completely different person.
Not just physically. Something inside me had shifted. I knew I had been given a second chance, and I had a powerful realization: I didn't want to go back to living the way I had before. I wanted to live with intention. I wanted to give back to the transplant community that had saved my life. And I wanted to surround myself with people who lifted me up.
I didn't have a plan yet. But I knew I wanted my life to mean something.
One of the moments that stays with me most from that time was coming home from the hospital in the spring. After years of being sick, of hospital rooms and uncertainty, I remember being outside and seeing the grass turning green again. Trees were budding. Early spring flowers were pushing their way up through the ground.
Everything was waking up after winter.
I was emotional in a way that's hard to describe. It felt like I was part of that revival somehow. It was like my body and nature were healing at the same time. After everything that had happened, it was a reminder that life has a way of returning, even when things feel completely broken. The spring always brings me back to those moments.
Not long after my transplant, I found my way back to the pool. Swimming had been a big part of my life growing up, and getting back in the water felt familiar. But it quickly became something more than exercise. The pool became the place where I rebuilt my strength, both physically and mentally. It was where I slowly started trusting my body again.
Lap by lap and day after day, I began to realize that I was capable of more than I had thought.
Eventually, that love of swimming led me to the transplant games, and later to swimming across Lake Ontario. Training for that swim became one of the most transformative experiences of my life. Long hours in open water give you a lot of time to think, and during those swims I kept noticing how much the process reminded me of the transplant journey.
Waiting for a transplant is a lot like swimming across a lake.
You can't always see the other side, and progress can feel painfully slow. Some moments are calm, and others feel overwhelming. Sometimes the only thing you can do is keep moving forward, one stroke at a time, trusting that eventually you'll reach the shore.
That swim also reminded me of something I've experienced throughout my life. Even during the hardest moments, I've never been alone. Just like my transplant, there was an entire team behind that swim. People navigating the boats, watching the conditions, and encouraging me through the toughest hours. Their belief carried me just as much as my own determination did.
That experience eventually led to the creation of Move for Life, a foundation built around hope, support, and helping people affected by transplant live fully. Building something alongside a team of people who shared that vision taught me a lot about what can happen when people come together around something meaningful.
Over the past ten years, I've also made other choices that have shaped the life I live today. I made the switch from working for someone else to working for myself, which gave me something I've learned is so valuable to me: ownership of my time. It allowed me to prioritize my health, my family, my work in the transplant community, and my love for swimming.
Looking back, I can see how much those choices were connected to that realization I had when I woke up after my transplant. I wanted to be more intentional about how I spent my time and what I gave my energy to.
That doesn't mean I've always had it figured out. Life gets busy, responsibilities add up, and it's easy to get caught up in what needs to be done. But I keep coming back to those questions.
What matters to me? What do I want my life to look like? Am I spending my time in ways that reflect those things?
This year marks ten years since my transplant, and it feels like I'm turning another page. Not leaving the past behind, but growing into a new chapter.
Recently, I completed a life coaching certification because I feel like the past decade has taught me so much about resilience, purpose, and the power of community. I've learned how important it is to make space to reflect, to ask ourselves questions we might otherwise avoid, and to recognize that we have choices in how we move forward.
I want to keep learning. I want to keep growing. And I want to help others discover their own strength and potential.
Ten years ago, when I woke up after my transplant, I didn't know where this path would lead. I couldn't have imagined the experiences, the people, or the opportunities that would become part of my life.
What I know now is that sometimes a life-changing experience doesn't give us all the answers. It gives us a reason to start asking different questions.
And maybe living intentionally isn't about having a clear picture of where we're going. Maybe it's about being willing to pause, look at the life we're living, and decide what matters as we take the next step.
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