What would you do if you knew you only had 15 days left with someone you love?

Not 15 days in the abstract. Not “someday.” But a real number. A countdown. A window of time you can almost hold in your hands.

Today we were given a date. If all goes as planned, we could meet our son, Ethan, on March 20.

And I keep trying to explain what that feels like, because it is wrapped in joy and excitement. The possibility of seeing his face. The possibility of holding him. The possibility of getting to tell him, out loud, what we have been telling him quietly for months.

But beneath that joy is a tenderness I do not have better words for yet.

Because for more than 30 weeks, my body has been his home. I have sustained him and carried him with me, keeping him safe in the only way I can. I have felt his kicks. I have lived with the steady comfort of simply knowing he is with us.

And now we are close enough to the day that I can feel time shifting under my feet.

In early November, we received Ethan’s diagnosis. I remember the way the world changed in a moment. How quickly the future I had pictured disappeared, and how slowly my mind tried to catch up. I remember the fog of learning new words I never wanted to learn, and the grief of realizing our story was not going to unfold the way I had imagined.

From that first part of November to now, time has been strange. Some days moved like molasses. Other days flew by so fast I could not even name what happened inside them.

I remember thinking March was so far away.

And then, somehow, here we are.

There is a particular kind of pain that comes with trying to “make memories” when you know those memories have a limit. People talk about soaking in every moment, and I understand why. I do. But there is also a sharp edge to it.

Because building memories in the moment can feel painful, almost like your heart is trying to hold joy and grief in the same breath.

I can be present with him right now, and still grieve what we will not get.

I can cherish what is happening, and still ache for what will not.

I imagined life with two little ones. I imagined a certain kind of noise and chaos and family rhythm. And now we are facing a reality where we may meet Ethan and then have to say goodbye far sooner than any parent should.

I have learned that time does not heal everything in the way people mean when they say it. But time does change you. It reshapes you. It forces you to learn how to live inside two truths at once.

We have learned how to keep moving forward while carrying something unspeakably heavy.

We have learned how to find our “new normal” in a story we would never have chosen.

And we have learned that love does not require certainty, or even outcome. Love is here, right now.

If I am honest, these days feel both sacred and paralyzing.

Because part of me wants to do everything “right.” I want to make sure I do everything in my power. I want to anticipate every need, plan every detail, prepare for every possibility.

But there is another part of me that knows I cannot control this.

I cannot control how long we will have.

I cannot control what the moment will look like.

I cannot control what my heart will feel when hello and goodbye are pressed so close together.

So right now I am learning to balance two things I never wanted to balance.

To stay present and embrace the moments we have, without living 15 days ahead in fear.

To plan what needs to be planned, and still let my heart be here today.

To let joy exist without guilt, and to let grief exist without shame.

And in the middle of all of it, I keep coming back to this: God will provide what we need in the moments we are actually in.

Not always in the way I imagine. Not always in some dramatic, sweeping sense. Often, it looks smaller and quieter than that.

Sometimes it looks like Austin doing something comical and pulling a real laugh out of me, the kind that reminds me I am still alive inside all this.

Sometimes it looks like a friend checking in, or dropping a silly distraction into my day, or simply being present without trying to fix what cannot be fixed.

Sometimes it looks like strength that arrives only after I thought I had none left.

And sometimes it looks like hope that feels almost too heavy to say out loud.

Because we are not preparing to say goodbye to Ethan forever.

We are preparing, Lord willing, for the possibility of hello. For the chance to hold him in our arms and tell him what he has already changed in us. For the moment we get to look at him and say, “You are so loved.” Not hypothetically. Not someday. In real time.

And we believe that when God is ready to take him home, Ethan will not be alone. He has an extraordinary family, and he has grandparents in Heaven who will be waiting to receive him with more love than we can even picture.

These are difficult words to write. The reality behind them is heartbreakingly real.

But the faith behind them is strong.

So what do you do when you only have 15 days left?

I do not have a neat answer. I do not have a checklist that makes this easier. I only know what we are trying to do.

We are loving him now.

We are noticing the kicks.

We are speaking his name.

We are letting people love us.

We are laughing when laughter shows up.

We are crying when tears come.

We are trusting that God will meet us in each moment as it comes.

And if you are reading this with your own clock ticking, in whatever way that looks like for you, I hope you hear this:

You do not have to carry it perfectly.

You do not have to be fearless.

You do not have to know how you will endure the next part to be faithful today.

Sometimes the bravest thing is simply staying present in the moment you have, and letting love be enough for right now.