never thought I’d be here—33 years old, watching life pass by from the sidelines, heart failing me more each day, and feeling like I’m breaking apart while trying to hold my family together.
We live in a small town outside Sacramento. It’s quiet, peaceful… but lately, that stillness feels more like isolation. My husband, my rock, works sunup to sundown as a logger—one of the hardest, most thankless jobs out there. No matter the weather, no matter how tired he is, he’s out there—cutting, lifting, fixing. Even on his so-called “days off,” he’s under the hood of our old, wheezing truck, hoping it’ll hold on just a little longer.
We’re not lazy. We’re not giving up. We’re just… drowning.
My heart condition has worsened over time. It limits everything—how much I can move, what I can do, even how much stress I can handle without risking everything. It’s frustrating to feel so helpless. And the worst part? Watching my 8-year-old son, Anderson, ask for snacks, ask why the lights flickered, ask why we don’t go places like other families.
I used to have answers. Now, sometimes all I can do is hold him close and whisper promises I’m terrified I won’t be able to keep.
There have been weeks where we’ve survived on just potatoes. Days when the electricity went out and we lit candles like it was a game. Nights when my husband came home with sap in his hair and dirt in his lungs, just to fall into bed for a few hours before doing it all over again.
We’ve applied for loans. We’ve been denied. We’ve reached out for help and often heard nothing back. But we keep moving. We keep hoping. We have to—for Anderson. His birthday is in September, and we don’t even know if we’ll be able to celebrate it. I want to give him a day where he can just be a kid. Where he doesn’t feel the weight that we do. Where he smiles without worry behind it.
So here I am—writing this, not out of shame, but out of courage. Because sometimes the bravest thing you can do is ask for help.
If you’ve read this far, thank you. You don’t know how much that means. If you feel moved to donate, or even just to share this story, please know—it’s not charity. It’s love. It’s light. It’s survival.
And it’s hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, tomorrow might be kinder than today.
https://www.paypal.me/HopeForAction