Hello Everyone,

On Friday morning, I woke up with my heart beating fast and my whole body feeling hot. No, I didn’t have a nightmare about the zombie apocalypse — I actually fell asleep reading a book about vacationing in Nantucket, so only happy dreams ensued.

So why was my heart racing? I took my vitals immediately and found my heart rate was at 155 beats per minute. Thinking maybe the cuff was off, I repeated it. Same result.

I called my emergency nurse coordinator — it took about 20 minutes to reach her — and when I took my vitals again, my heart rate had dropped to 134. I could hear the doctor in the background say, “You have to go to the emergency room.”

I went downstairs to where my parents were drinking coffee and told them what had happened. We quickly started packing. I took a last-minute shower, anticipating that if I had to be admitted, I’d want a few minutes of feeling human and clean. Then we were off to the hospital.

The medical team decided to admit me. My heart rate and white blood cell count were high, so they would keep me under observation, add antibiotics, and increase my antivirals.

Of course, I was scared. I asked about worst-case scenarios, but because my kidney function has been improving with each test (thank goodness), and because we caught this early, the team felt optimistic. I have to admit, I’m feeling hopeful too. As I write this, I’m already feeling a little better.

Now, after a few days in the hospital, my world has shrunk even smaller than it is at home. My days are filled with visits from family, slow walks around the hallway, phone calls with friends, good audiobooks, and FaceTiming with Barney — who loves saying “dada” while I counter with “mama,” and clapping as I sing silly songs to him.

When I go home, my world will expand slightly — better food, my morning writing routine, walks in the woods with my dog.

When I think back to my most expansive experiences — when I was healthy — life felt limitless. Eating out, exploring museums, traveling both nationally and internationally, with no real restrictions.

When I first got my transplant, it felt like my world was beginning to expand again, even with limits like social distancing and traveling with our new camper. I knew there would always be some restrictions, but still, I dreamed: I would return to Italy, travel through Spain, maybe even explore Croatia (assuming I can find excellent kidney care there).

There are places I’ve accepted I’ll likely never go — safaris to South Africa, Machu Picchu, a return to India — because of the risks of foodborne illnesses and infection. But I still hope to travel carefully and joyfully.

At the same time, I’m coming to terms with a harder truth: no matter how much I hope, bumps in the road are inevitable. That’s the reality of being a transplant recipient. Pain, hospitalizations — they will likely be part of my future.

Hope and realism aren’t opposites. I’m learning to carry them side by side.

I’m also learning that expansion and contraction will be part of my life from now on (and it always was but I didn’t pay as much attention to it).

It made me think: since there’s no guarantee I’ll have a healthy body — no matter how well I eat or exercise — maybe I need to change how I think about expansion altogether.

I used to believe expansion was the ultimate goal: travel, adventure, romance, success. Expanding felt like proof that life was moving forward, growing, thriving.

That realization led me to another: I often categorize my good years and bad years based on how expansive they felt.

For example: I think back to 2021, when the pandemic hit — how much I hated the forced contraction of staying inside, social distancing, watching businesses shut down. I lost some superficial friendships I’d made from 2017–2021 — friends who were fun, even if we lacked depth. I was lonely, bored, depressed, despite my best efforts to connect.

I remember wishing at New Year’s: May 2022 be better.

And it was. 2022 and 2023 were a blast — new friendships, traveling with Ian, local adventures. My world was expansive again.

Now, I feel the difference. The world is contracting. But this time, I’m learning it’s not all bad.

My days are small, but they’re full. Feeling my feelings, living each moment deeply — it’s its own kind of expansion.

And there’s no guarantee my world will physically get bigger again, although I have hope.

I realize now that even being able to categorize years as “good” or “bad” based on expansion was a privilege I didn’t recognize when I had it.

I’m so happy many of my friends and family still have that privilege — to have safe, healthy bodies, to do the things they want.

In many ways, I’m living like it’s still COVID — because of my immunosuppression — and some of that cautiousness will likely be permanent.

And yet, within this contracted world, I’ve found a surprising amount of freedom and joy.

Freedom not from a bigger life — but from needing life to always be big.

I’m open to the fact that this will keep evolving as my health does.

But for now, this is where I am. And there’s something about living inside each day itself that feels okay.

With that, I’ll say: Happy Sunday — whether your world feels big or small right now, I hope it feels like enough.

Love,
Danielle