Never Would I Have Thought
As a little kid, I never would have imagined growing up to specialize in not only helping animals and people in unique ways but also supporting those dealing with the loss of a loved one—whether it’s a person or a pet. Over time, this mission has shaped the services I offer today, such as photography for moments like live births, stillbirths, and other deeply personal events. When it comes to stillbirths or any situation where an infant is born deceased, I provide my services free of charge.
But it doesn’t stop there. I also create art pieces and jewelry in memory of loved ones, preserving the connection they held in life. Whenever I see a TikTok video about someone’s grief, I reach out in the comments, offering my services. I don’t do this for fame or attention—I do it out of genuine empathy.
It also helps me heal.
There’s a part of me still scarred from the time I was fighting to survive while grieving the loss of Darryl, my late fiancé. During that dark chapter, the only person who truly stood by me was my mother. While I had friends who once offered support, many are no longer in my life for reasons I may share in future posts, or they have passed away. Losing Darryl wasn’t the only heartbreak I endured. I’ve lost so many people and animals, and grief has been a constant companion in my life.
I attended my first funeral when I was just a baby—only 2 or 3 months old. It was my great-grandmother’s funeral, which happened to fall near my birthday. Death’s proximity to my milestones didn’t stop there. Before I was even born, my mom experienced her own devastating loss. Her cousin—her best friend—took his life on the Fourth of July, a year or two before she became pregnant with me. His death was tragic not just because of how it happened but also because his body wasn’t discovered or reported for three days due to circumstances I won’t share here. What I will say is that my mom and her family were robbed of closure—they couldn’t even see his body.
My cousin’s birthday is the day after mine. My mom once admitted to me that when her doctor told her my due date, she prayed I wouldn’t be born on his birthday because it would’ve been too much for her to handle.
This history is why I try so hard to make my birthdays as positive as possible. I remember being a little girl and watching my mom cry around my birthday, mourning her cousin.
A Lifetime of Challenges
My challenges didn’t begin with loss. They started the day I was born.
The first year of my life was spent battling severe feeding issues. I could only consume one ounce of milk per hour—anything more, and my body would reject it. My birth itself was complicated, requiring an emergency C-section, and I was born with temporary paralysis on one side of my face. Before I was even a day old, I was seeing a neurologist.
Though the paralysis improved over time, the muscles on one side of my face remain weaker, leading to years of self-consciousness about my smile. I’ve worked hard to strengthen those muscles, but the effects linger. I also have astigmatism in both eyes, likely related to the muscle weakness, and I’ve been wearing glasses since the third grade.
The first 15 years of my life were marked by unexplained symptoms that worsened as I grew older. Doctors and even family dismissed me as a hypochondriac, but my medical history tells a different story. I wasn’t just dealing with routine illnesses. One trip to the ER at Henry Mayo resulted in diagnoses of sepsis, brucellosis, and valley fever—all at the same time.
I’ve had sepsis dozens of times, E. coli infections five times, pneumonia requiring hospitalization three times, and a near-fatal blood clot that was caught just in time. Had I waited another 24 hours to seek help, the clot would’ve reached my heart, causing cardiac arrest.
One of the most intense medical events I’ve endured was having two major surgeries at once. My gallbladder was failing, operating at only 18%, and had to be removed. At the same time, I had my esophagus repaired for the third time. This wasn’t a minimally invasive procedure—they had to completely cut me open, leaving me with a large scar on my stomach just below my sternum. It’s a reminder of what my body has endured and the resilience I’ve gained from these experiences.
My medical records are over 800 pages long, detailing procedures, surgeries, and countless diagnoses. Despite being in remission from endometriosis, I still deal with lingering symptoms. I also have anemia, hypokalemia (which causes sudden drops in potassium), hypertension, severe scoliosis, and a minor form of spina bifida. The spina bifida, while considered “minor,” has left two holes in my spinal vertebrae.
One physical therapist even told me to stop riding horses due to my spine’s condition. My response? “Too late—I already have six horses at home!”
Resilience Through Empathy
These experiences have shaped me into someone deeply empathetic. My services—whether it’s photography, creating memorial art, or simply reaching out to someone grieving—come from a place of understanding. I’ve been there. I know how it feels to lose and to be lost.
This blog is just a glimpse into my journey, and I hope that by sharing my story, I can bring comfort to others. If you’re reading this and you’re struggling, know that you’re not alone. Life can be relentless, but it can also be beautiful. We survive by holding on to the good moments and by lifting others up when they need it most.
A Metamorphosis Addiction 