You Are the Reason

If love could build bridges across pain, I’d have built one long enough to carry us both out of the storm. There are days I still wish I could. If I could climb every mountain and swim every ocean to make this easier for you, Tim, I would—without hesitation. Not because I think I could fix what’s broken, but because I’d give anything for you to feel the peace you deserve.

There’s a helplessness that comes with watching someone you love face something you can’t take away. PNES has taught me that—the way it steals moments, hijacks peace, interrupts the simple flow of a day. The seizures come without warning, uninvited, leaving your body trembling and your spirit weary. And though I’ve learned what to do, though I know how to stay calm on the outside, there’s a part of me that breaks inside every single time. Because if I could take it from you, even for a day, I would.

You are the reason I keep showing up with hope in my hands, even when it feels fragile. The reason I still pray with faith that healing, in whatever form it comes, will find you. You are the reason I can see beauty even in this—because love, when it’s real, doesn’t just stand in the sunshine; it stands in the storm and refuses to leave.

If I could turn back the clock, I’d go to the day before this began and build a fortress of light around you. I’d make sure every shadow was chased away before it could touch you. I’d spend every hour keeping you safe, guarding your peace like something sacred, because that’s what it is.

But I can’t go back. None of us can. So instead, I love you in the now—in this imperfect, unpredictable, often difficult present. I hold your hand when the tremors come. I whisper words of calm when your body betrays your strength. I remind you that even when you can’t see it, you’re still strong, still brave, still here.

You are not your seizures. You are not your anxiety or your depression. You are the man who keeps getting up, who keeps trying, who still laughs when laughter feels impossible. You are the man who apologizes after a hard night even though you don’t need to. You are the one who fights invisible battles with visible courage, and I need you to see that.

Because you are the reason love feels holy.

The truth is, this journey has changed both of us. It’s stripped away the illusion of control, the idea that love is about fixing things. I used to think that if I just tried hard enough, prayed long enough, believed big enough, I could make it all go away. But love doesn’t always heal by erasing—it heals by enduring. By standing beside. By holding on through the shaking.

You’ve taught me that love is not found in the grand gestures, but in the quiet faithfulness of ordinary days. The mornings when I watch you breathe peacefully and thank God for calm. The nights when we hold each other through exhaustion and say nothing at all, because sometimes words aren’t needed.

And though I can’t stop the seizures or chase away the fear completely, I can promise this: you will never walk through it alone.

If I could, I’d carry you over every mountain of fear and through every ocean of uncertainty. But since I can’t, I’ll walk beside you instead. I’ll steady you when you shake. I’ll remind you that even on the hardest days, light still wins.

And the truth is, Tim, you are the reason I still believe in light. You’re the reason I know that love can survive the darkest nights. Because every time you rise again—every time you breathe, every time you smile through the pain—you prove that the dark doesn’t get the final word.

Love does.

If I could make you see what I see when I look at you, you’d never question your strength again. You’d see the courage it takes to wake up each morning knowing that another wave might come—and doing it anyway. You’d see the grace that fills the space between your pain and your perseverance. You’d see the quiet hero that lives inside you, even on the days you feel broken.

And maybe that’s what I want you to know most of all: you are not broken beyond repair. You are being remade—piece by piece—by a love that doesn’t quit, by a God who never lets go, by a story that still has purpose even when it hurts.

So no, I can’t fix what this illness has taken. But I can love you through it. I can stand beside you in the valley and remind you that light still finds its way in. I can choose you—over and over, every day—because you are worth every mountain, every ocean, every prayer whispered through tears.

You are the reason I still believe in miracles. Not because one moment will change everything, but because you keep showing me how to find the miraculous in the middle of the mess.

I don’t need to climb mountains or cross oceans to prove my love—you’ve already seen it in the quiet, ordinary ways. In the way I still reach for your hand. In the way I still whisper “we’ll get through this” after every storm. In the way I still believe in you, even when you forget how to believe in yourself.

Because love doesn’t stop when life gets hard. It grows deeper roots. It learns to bend without breaking. It learns to hold fast when everything else feels uncertain.

And though I can’t go back and make sure the light defeated the dark, I can stand here with you now—holding the light high, refusing to let the darkness win.

You are the reason I keep going.
You are the reason I pray harder.
You are the reason I still believe that hope—real, stubborn, defiant hope—is worth holding on to.

And maybe that’s the greatest gift of all.

Because even in this storm, even in the shaking and the fear, we are still here. Still together. Still choosing love.

And in that—there is light enough.