Hey everyone,

I’ve been thinking a lot about purpose lately.

I think part of it is because I haven’t been feeling well. I’ve been fighting off a virus that triggered severe kidney rejection — which I mentioned in my last few emails — and it’s been a lot. My days are filled with phone calls to coordinate care, advocate for myself, deal with insurance. It’s time-consuming, and as a friend put it, “soul-sucking.”

Being sick feels like it’s going to last forever, even though I know both life — and feeling this sick — is finite. When I’m stuck in logistics — filling out forms, managing medications — it pulls me away from what I actually want to be doing. It makes me ask bigger questions: What feels purposeful, even when my body is compromised and my time is consumed by something else?

When I looked up the definition of “purpose,” my favorite came from the Cambridge Dictionary:
noun — why you do something or why something exists.

Purpose means different things to different people. Some see it as a higher, spiritual calling. Others create it themselves — through relationships, work, or something else. I fall somewhere in the middle. I believe in something greater than me — I like to call it G-d or light. It’s a comforting presence when I meditate, and sometimes I get messages like, “Everything is going to be alright.” But I don’t believe G-d gave me kidney disease as some kind of gift for growth. So when it comes to purpose, I probably fall more into the self-created camp, though I still like to tap into that spiritual energy to guide me.

As a career coach, I always worked with clients around these kinds of questions. Even if I didn’t use the word “purpose” directly, I counseled clients with the understanding that most of us want to contribute in some way — and that longing often stems from something we needed in childhood. For me, both as a kid and an adult, I always wanted to belong — to be accepted for the deep, intense, quirky person I am. And I’ve always been drawn to creating spaces where others feel a sense of belonging for who they are.

My favorite job I ever had was when I worked at a synagogue building a community for young professionals. It was meaningful and fun. People formed relationships, explored Judaism in personal ways, and found community. I was devastated when the position was eliminated due to lack of funding.

To be honest, I’ve been ready to move on from career counseling for about four years now (I’ve been in the field for over twelve years). It doesn’t satisfy my need to build spaces where people can truly belong. I’ve been longing to return to community engagement — work that ignites something deep inside me. But fear has held me back, mainly the financial uncertainty that often comes with that profession. My husband and I have talked about it, and when I’m ready, he’s fully supportive of me pursuing that path again.

Before Barney was born, I knew one of my purposes was to be a mom. But I also need a creative outlet and to connect with others, which I get through my work. Six months after his birth, right when I would’ve returned to work, I was diagnosed with End Stage Kidney Disease and had to apply for Social Security Disability. The process was painful because I love working — the connection, the stimulation. But my reality is that my mind is more ambitious than my body. My energy is unpredictable. My health can change in an instant. Working just isn’t feasible.

A friend from high school, who lives with a terminal disease, gave me a pep talk when I first went on disability. He told me: “Even if you can’t work for income, you still need to find purpose in something else.” He found his in painting. His art didn’t pay the bills, but it filled his spirit. That mattered.

For me, it became writing and self-expression — a way to honor my deep, quirky side. When I look back on the writing I did during my year on dialysis, a lot of it is incomplete. But even in fragments, it’s something I can shape into a memoir. Back then, writing gave me a way to process the unfathomable — and it still does, even if it’s just a few sentences.

I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that writing is closest thing I can do right now to work. It gives me flexibility — I can do it on my own time, sometimes daily, sometimes not at all.

Then there’s my kidney donor campaign.

That experience — self-advocacy, sharing my story, raising awareness about kidney disease — shifted something in me. I got to witness the best of humanity. Brad, my donor, and his family, who supported him in donating to a stranger, changed my life. So many people from my past came forward to get tested. I think about them often — and it makes me want to cry, how much love I feel. Their kindness humbles me. People shared my campaign, brought food, sent cards and prayers. It reminded me that even in a crazy world, there’s still so much good.

And I didn’t just find a donor for myself. Three other people found life-saving matches through the campaign. I realized that when I can go back to work, I want to return to community engagement — this time for causes I care deeply about, like living organ donation or IVF advocacy.

I haven’t shared this publicly yet, but in the eight weeks I felt strong after my transplant, I pitched an article about my experience with living donation to a magazine. It’s being published this fall. Brad and I also shared our story with a local publication, and a major news outlet is on standby to film when I’m well enough. For the first time in over a year, my mind felt clear and my energy almost normal. I allowed myself to go big picture again with purpose.

Brad and I have become advocates together. We’re forever linked by this incredible experience. We both see the power in sharing our story to save lives.

I won’t lie — I also love the dopamine hit of seeing my writing published or a news outlet picking up our story. But more than that, being sick has made me aware of how finite time is. And that’s why writing and sharing my story has taken on new meaning. Leaving behind these stories — in magazines, in broadcasts, in my memoir for Barney — feels like a way to say: I was here.

I realize I don’t have one singular purpose — I have a few that carry me: being Barney’s mom (and other identities), writing my truth, creating community, advocating for what I believe matters, and leaving something behind that says I was here.

But when my mind goes foggy with pain and medication, it’s hard to accomplish anything. That’s one of the most difficult things about being sick — purpose becomes elusive. Some might say staying alive is purpose enough, and I don’t disagree. But I still feel the ache of not writing, not working on my memoir, not pushing forward with advocacy, having to pull back on sharing my story with Brad.

In pain, people can still do a lot. Frida Kahlo painted from her bed. Her collective body of artwork challenged norms and showed the truth of her experience. Suleika Jaouad journaled during cancer treatment, and her journal entries became the backbone for a New York Times bestseller.

So I’m finding purpose in smaller acts: writing incoherently with a migraine, advocating for change at my hospital. But there’s sadness, too. I miss working toward something bigger.

Still, I have a lot of fight in me. I began writing this email with a throbbing migraine at 2 a.m. and finished it when the fog lifted the next morning. My deepest prayer is to get better and return to the work I love—sharing my story, saving lives with Brad, and building communities again. But I’m learning to trust that, like Suleika Jaouad, I can write through the pain and, when the clouds part, shape my thoughts into something lasting: a memoir for Barney that tells him who I am, what I’ve loved, what I’ve struggled with, and what I believe in.

But until then, I’ll ground myself in purpose wherever I can find it — in big actions or small ones.

With love,
Danielle

P.S. I’ve attached a picture of our family during Mother’s Day.