I didn’t mean to build a life out of loss — but loss is what carved the path beneath my feet.
In 2021, I packed up my family and moved to Phoenix chasing a promise: a NICU job that claimed it would support mothers and babies affected by Neonatal Abstinence Syndrome. I thought I was stepping into purpose. Instead, I walked into a unit that felt unsafe, unsupported, and nothing like what I had been told. Every shift felt like a gamble with my license. Every morning felt heavier than the last. Depression settled over me like a second skin.

One afternoon, exhausted and desperate for air, I applied to Planned Parenthood. I didn’t expect anything. I didn’t even know if I could carry the weight of abortion care — not politically, not spiritually, not as a Christian woman raised in the church. But when they offered me the job, I called my brother. I needed his voice, his clarity, his grounding.

He told me, “You were made for this.”

Those were the last words he ever said to me.

He died that night in a car accident, and the world split open. Grief rearranged everything I thought I knew about calling, about faith, about what it means to show up for people in their most vulnerable moments.

So I stepped into the work he blessed with his final breath. And I found myself.

No one should walk through an abortion alone. No one should carry shame that isn’t theirs. No one should be abandoned at the exact moment they need tenderness, clarity, and dignity.