At the age of 50, I was in what most would consider peak physical condition. I was a gym owner, a personal trainer, and a health and nutrition coach. I worked out hard doing HIIT (high-intensity interval training) and strength training 4-5 times a week. I felt strong and was very pleased with what my body could accomplish as a "mature" woman. My diet was impeccable. I counted calories, monitored macros, and rarely ate foods that weren't nutritious. I was the picture of health and rocking my purpose - helping others reach their health and fitness goals.

That was until everything changed in 2020. My fitness performance began to decline in January, but I chalked it up to overtraining. You see, in addition to my own workout regimen, I was also leading small group classes and training numerous clients. Our gym was doing great and my focus was completely on health and fitness - mine and my clients.

Exhaustion and irritability struck in February and continued through March, but I kept pushing my limits. Then, COVID-19 hit our country. Gyms were mandated to close in North Carolina on March 25. I was forced to quickly change directions and find ways to offer my clients virtual training while I was unknowingly facing my Goliath.

At the beginning of April, I experienced a Cytokine storm, which included severe swelling in my joints, a rash, and a low-grade fever. By April 20, I was struggling to breathe, and my husband insisted on taking me to a respiratory clinic.

When we arrived at the clinic, we were met at our car by the doctor on duty. He quickly listened to my lungs and immediately asked me to follow him inside for further evaluation, where he found my oxygen saturation to be 69 percent! To put that in perspective, 95-100% is considered normal. I was told I would be going to the hospital in an ambulance immediately following a few x-rays and, because of the COVID-19 pandemic, my husband, John, was not allowed to go with me. I only had enough time for a quick hug and kiss in the parking lot to say good-bye to him; then off I went with medics and Jesus. 12 hours in the emergency room and three negative COVID-19 tests later, I was officially admitted and taken to the room where I would spend the next 10 days.

While the doctors and nurses spent the week of April 20 trying to find ways to increase my oxygen saturation, I spent it praying and trying to breathe. I had moments when I felt some improvement and truly believed I would be going home soon. However, with God's reassurance that I would not be alone, I was moved to ICU on April 30, where my health declined quickly. At 9:00 that evening, I was put into an induced coma and on life support. John was told to call my daughters and prepare for the worst. At this point, they were allowed to be with me because the doctors were not confident I would survive.

I was diagnosed with a rare autoimmune disease called Dermatomyositis with anti synthetase syndrome anti-PL-7, which attacks the muscles and lungs. I needed new lungs and this would happen at Duke University Medical Center. While still in a coma, I was airlifted to Duke on May 12. I wasn't aware of the seriousness of my health crisis until being brought out of sedation several days later. I would be without visitors again until COVID-19 restrictions were lightened on June 24, John's and my wedding anniversary. During these endless days alone, I spent many hours in prayer and Jesus comforted me with, "We are with you. You are not alone."

I was placed on the lung registry on May 20. Five days later, at the expense of my donor and their family, my new lungs arrived. My double-lung transplant surgery began at 11:00 am and by 4:00 pm, I had taken the first breath of my new life.