By: Veronica Barber-Moore
The night before surgery is a strange place to exist. It’s quiet, but your mind is loud. It’s still, but your spirit is pacing. It’s the kind of silence that forces you to confront everything you’ve been trying to outrun.
I had spent days preparing — physically, mentally, emotionally. I researched everything I could. I asked every question. I replayed every scenario. But nothing truly prepares you for the moment when you finally sit still and realize your life is about to change in a way you can’t fully predict. And the night before surgery, she had all of mine.
I remember looking at my son — twelve years old, still a child, but suddenly carrying the weight of a grown man in his eyes. He tried to be brave for me, and I tried to be brave for him. We both failed a little, and that was okay. Love doesn’t always look strong. Sometimes it looks like tears you pretend not to see.
My family wrapped around me like armor. They prayed, they encouraged, they reminded me of who I was before fear tried to rewrite my identity. They didn’t let me fold. They pushed me gently but firmly into the mindset of a fighter.
And yet, when the house got quiet… when everyone went to sleep… when it was just me and the truth… I felt everything.
The fear. The uncertainty. The hope. The determination. The whisper of “What if?” and the louder whisper of “You will get through this.”
I packed my hospital bag with the essentials — comfortable clothes, toiletries, a notebook, and a courage I didn’t even know I had. I took one last look around my home, not in a dramatic way, but in a grateful way — grateful for life, grateful for time, grateful for the chance to fight.
Surgery was scheduled early. I barely slept. But when the sun rose, something in me rose with it. Not confidence — not yet — but readiness.
A quiet readiness that said:
Let’s begin. This was the moment where fear and faith met face‑to‑face.
And, I chose faith.
