By Pat Sheveland

It’s just shy of 9 PM, and I’m out for a walk on the trail behind our multi-generational home, just me and Hope—our sweet 8-year-old black Labradoodle. The path is paved, winding its way through the middle of the woods, with creeks rushing beneath the bridges. After last year’s drought, the sound of water flowing so freely is music to my soul. The deep greens of the trees, the soothing quiet of nature at night feels like a blanket of healing energy wrapped gently around me.

It’s been a week. One of those weeks where life throws you curveball after curveball so hard and fast you’re not sure you’ll catch your breath again.

My husband became seriously ill—what started with what we now know was a small deer tick bite, spiraled into something that nearly killed him. Twice. We had no diagnosis for a week and as a nurse and, admittedly, someone who likes a sense of control, not knowing was frustrating to say the least. Emergency rooms (multiple times). Hospital transfers. Ambulance rides. Specialists. Nurses. Watching and wondering if he was going to make it and feeling so helpless.

But we finally got a diagnosis. A plan. A way forward. And today, we’re seeing great progress. He’s responding to treatment, though still very weak. Rehabilitation will be slow, but my heart is holding hope again.

This evening, I needed air. I needed nature. I needed to walk and move and breathe. My body was swollen and aching, my neck and low back pain flaring up, and I honestly told Hope this would be a short walk because I was exhausted. “Just go poop and we’ll turn back,” I said.

But here we are, two miles later. Walking longer than planned, because we both needed it.

Hope’s been grieving too. My husband is her constant companion, and she’s either been wailing when I leave the room or quiet and lethargic since he has been in hospital this past week. She hadn’t eaten in days. But tonight, she finally did. That, along with our walk, and now—dozens of fireflies flickering through the bushes? It feels like the universe is sending me little gifts hope and light.

Earlier today, after learning my husband wouldn’t be discharged just yet, I accepted an invitation to go out with a few dear friends. We sat outside on the patio at the restaurant enjoying pizza, a few drinks which turned into a sacred few hours of sharing, laughter and comfort. I sat there realizing that we’re all caregivers in our own way, as parents, as spouses, as professional caregivers. One friend is a receptionist at a cancer center where the patients light up just seeing her because she is like a little hummingbird – filled with a joy that makes others happier. Another is navigating her own family crisis. We held space for each other in the way true friends do.

We talked about the hard stuff—aging, illness and witnessing more death of our friends at this age. We shared our memories of each other and we talked about our various lived experiences over the past 60+ years. We even touched on politics—not in divisive ways, but with curiosity and care. We didn’t need to necessarily agree, we didn’t feel the need to “fight” or debate to be heard; we just needed to witness each other.

That’s friendship and that’s what helped me find some healing at the end of this day where I was feeling exhausted emotionally and physically from what I realize was anticipatory grief.

Because anticipatory grief is real. It’s that space between what is and what could be lost. It’s exhausting. It sits in your chest like a weight. There were moments these past two weeks where I felt so strong—and others where I just sat in my car, staring out the windshield, feeling like the tears would never stop if I let them start.

But I haven’t let them fall. Not yet. Because I needed to be present for my husband. I needed to tap it down and be steady.

And yet tonight, walking with swollen feet and emotional overload, I feel full. Not just with worry or exhaustion, but with deep, quiet gratitude.

Gratitude for a diagnosis. For seeing fireflies lighting the path for the first time in years. For a dog who finally wagged her tail. For friends who pour love into my cup when I’ve run dry. For this season of summer that feels like it always races by too quickly. For the reminder that breath—just breath—is a lifeline. In and out.

This is why we breathe. In and out… in and out. To calm the chaos. To nourish our bodies. To release what no longer serves us.

Tonight, I’ll tuck this moment into my memory: the woods, the water, the laughter, the friends and the fireflies to lean into for the days ahead when I feel overwhelmed, or angry or just plain sad. I’ll remember that I don’t need to be in control because the universe has my back!

So, dear reader, may you find your own fireflies. In your backyard. In your mind’s eye. In the quiet moments where a little hope can flicker in the dark.

Because even in the darkness, there is light.

And it is magic.