This morning, I woke up to a text message that made me exhale for what felt like the first time in days.

“Good news,” it said. “I passed gas.”

It might sound small, maybe even strange, to celebrate. But when you’re watching someone you love fight for their life from afar, even the tiniest sign of progress feels monumental. My sister, Laura, has been in and out of the hospital, enduring pain, surgery, and uncertainty. She’s miles away, but every update through the phone feels like an emotional lifeline; a fragile thread I cling to with both hands.

These past few weeks have been a blur of calls, texts, and voice notes, each carrying both relief and dread. I never know what the next notification might bring: a message that she’s resting, or one that begins with, “They found something.”

A few days ago, I got one of those messages.

She had just been discharged from the hospital after a long stay. Less than a day later, she was back in — doubled over with excruciating stomach pain. The pain was so intense that doctors decided to operate. During surgery, they discovered her intestine was twisted, and they found a tumor. Because Laura has Neurofibromatosis Type 1 (NF1), the news was especially alarming. NF1 can increase the risk of tumors, and after so many hospitalizations, this one hit differently.

And yet, despite the fear and exhaustion in her voice when we talked that night, she ended the call the same way she always does with quiet determination. “I’ll be okay,” she said. “I just have to get through this.”

That’s Laura in a nutshell: resilient, even when she shouldn’t have to be.

She’s also managing Rheumatoid Arthritis and Short Bowel Syndrome, both of which already make everyday life a challenge. Between her chronic illnesses, job loss, and the need to leave an unhealthy home environment, she’s been carrying an unimaginable weight. And now, she’s doing it while recovering from surgery and waiting on pathology results that could change everything.

When people say “hope is a choice,” I think of her. Not because it comes easily, but because she keeps choosing it, even when it hurts.

Every time my phone buzzes, I pause whatever I’m doing and brace myself because each conversation matters. Each text carries her strength, her exhaustion, her need for reassurance. Some days she’s hopeful, talking about her recovery and the dogs she can’t wait to be reunited with. Other days, her words are clipped, heavy with pain and frustration. On those days, I remind her and myself that healing doesn’t move in a straight line.

It’s strange how digital communication can make you feel both deeply connected and painfully helpless. I want to be there physically to hold her hand, bring her soup, help her pack, and make her laugh. Instead, I send heart emojis and voice notes full of encouragement, hoping my words bridge the distance.

This morning’s message “I passed gas” was the first sign that her body is healing. After abdominal surgery, that’s what doctors wait for before allowing solid food or talking about discharge. It’s the smallest biological function, but it means everything is beginning to work again.

It means hope.

And that’s what I’m choosing today: to celebrate every tiny miracle, even the ones no one writes about.

Because if this journey has taught me anything, it’s that progress isn’t always visible. Sometimes, healing is a text message you reread a dozen times just to feel that spark of relief again. It’s a photo of her breakfast tray with a caption that says, “I was able to eat a little.” It’s the sound of her voice after surgery, weaker than before but still fighting to be heard.

Laura’s story isn’t just one of illness — it’s one of endurance. She’s faced loss, pain, and instability, yet she continues to push forward. She’s determined to rebuild her life, find safety, and start fresh somewhere she can heal in peace. She’s doing all of it while her body reminds her daily of its limits and her bills pile higher than her strength some days.

That’s why I started her GoFundMe not just to raise money, but to give her a chance to breathe again. To help her pack her things, move into a safe place, and cover her medical care while she regains her footing. Asking for help wasn’t easy for her. Admitting she couldn’t carry everything alone was its own kind of bravery.

But that’s the beauty of hope. It doesn’t require perfection, only persistence.

I’ve seen people crumble under less, and yet here’s Laura, finding reasons to smile through hospital curtains, whispering gratitude for small things, and reminding me that light still exists in the hardest places. Her courage makes me believe that no matter how dark things get, healing always finds a way.

Today, I’m choosing to believe that this is the turning point, that her body, her spirit, and her circumstances are aligning for something better. She’s been through enough hardship for a lifetime, and I have to believe that this pain, this surgery, this chapter, will be the last storm before her sunrise.

So yes, I’m holding on to hope, the kind that shows up quietly on the other end of a phone call. The kind that says, “I’m still here.” The kind that reminds me that healing doesn’t need grand gestures or perfect timing. Sometimes, it’s just a text message that says, “I passed gas,” and the tears that follow because you know what it means.

It means life. It means movement. It means she’s still fighting.

And that’s enough to keep me going.

If you’d like to help Laura on her journey to healing and independence, you can do so here: