It’s strange how blurry those first few weeks of recovery are. I know my wife was there—caring for me and our newborn—but if I’m honest, I barely remember most of it. The days in the hospital, the frustration of not being able to move, and the fog of constant pain all blend. But this photo… this photo locks in a memory I might have otherwise lost.
The accident happened just three weeks after our son was born, and suddenly, I went from being an active husband and new dad to lying in a hospital bed, struggling to breathe with a collapsed lung, three broken ribs, and a fractured collarbone. I couldn’t lift my son, couldn’t take care of myself, and the weight of that helplessness was heavy. I knew my wife was there through it all, but those days were such a haze. The pain was real, but there are little glimpses that help me piece together the bigger picture.
This photo of walking down the hospital hall is a reminder of my wife’s quiet strength, the way she cared for both me and our son, balancing all the newness of motherhood with the unexpected burden of a husband who could barely move. This moment freezes the tenderness of that season—the way she carried our family forward when I couldn’t.
It’s funny how photos work like that. They capture the fleeting memories we might otherwise lose in the blur of life. I may not remember every detail of those weeks, but I remember the feeling of being loved and cared for, even when I was weakest.
Faith tells us that in our most vulnerable moments, we aren’t alone—and I felt that deeply in how my wife showed up, day after day, without fail. This photo is more than just a reminder of the pain I endured. It’s a testament to the love that carried me through it, a love that reflects something bigger than us both.
So, while the details might be blurry, I’ll always hold on to this—my wife’s strength, her care, and how she carried our family during one of the most challenging seasons of our lives. And for that, I’m forever grateful.
Westerman.Blog 