The Medicines That Have Been With Me From The Beginning

Thirty-four years ago, I entered earth-side with a hole in my heart.

Literally.

I was born with a heart murmur. At the time, heart murmurs weren't uncommon, and many were known to close on their own. So I was quickly brought home to a loving family filled with the beautiful chaos of six older siblings.

I was so tiny.

My mom took such good care of me. Looking back, she remembers me as a remarkably quiet baby. I rarely cried for food or comfort. She thought I was simply easygoing.

What none of us knew was that I was using every ounce of energy I had just to stay here.

Despite being fed and loved, I continued to lose weight. At doctor's appointments, my mother was questioned.

"Are you feeding your baby?"

Of course she was.

She was doing everything she could to love me.

By six months old, I was scheduled for open-heart surgery.

Just before the procedure, a compassionate doctor asked my mom a simple question:

"Is there anything at all that she responds to?"

My mother paused and shared something she had noticed.

"When I play certain melodies for her (she exclusively played chabbad Nigunim in our household),

she starts moving her hands and feet."

That was enough.

The surgery was postponed.

The doctors decided to give my little body more time.

And somehow, in my own timing, I healed.

I've reflected on that story many times throughout my life.

As I look back now, I can't help but smile.

The things that supported me then are many of the same things that support me today.

Rhythm.

Music.

Stillness.

and compassionate awareness.

Being present enough to feel what is actually here.

Somewhere along the way, they became some of my greatest teachers.

Life has brought many seasons since then. Seasons of joy and seasons of heartbreak. Seasons of healing, uncertainty, growth, and remembering.

Again and again, I have found myself returning to the same medicines.

A quiet moment in nature.

A song that brings me back into my body.

Movement that helps me feel what words cannot express.

Stillness that allows me to hear my own inner wisdom.

Not because these things fix me.

But because they help me come home to myself.

As I celebrate another year of life, I feel grateful.

For the tiny baby who stayed.

For the doctor who listened.

And for my mother.

Not only for her love, but for her attentive presence.

For the way she watched closely.

For the way she remained curious.

For the way she noticed what brought me to life when I couldn't yet speak for myself.

When the doctor asked if there was anything I responded to, she had an answer.

She had been paying attention.

Looking back, I realize what a gift that was.

Her compassionate awareness, her dedication to my highest good, and her willingness to trust what she observed helped shape the beginning of my life.

When I reflect on this story now, I don't just see a baby with a heart murmur.

I see a child who was deeply seen.

And perhaps that is one of the greatest gifts we can offer one another.

This first story is dedicated to my mother.

Thank you Ma, for seeing me before I knew how to see myself.