Watch the video at the end of this article.
Introduction
Home does not necessarily mean our little farmhouse in Waco quite yet, but after everything that has happened, even the thought of leaving the hospital feels like a kind of homecoming. For days, our world has been reduced to white walls, quiet hallways, glowing monitors, whispered conversations, and the constant rhythm of nurses coming in and out of the room. We have learned to measure time by medication schedules, doctor visits, and the small signs that Indy is growing stronger. Now, being told that we may soon move to a nearby hotel or Airbnb feels almost impossible to believe. It is not the front porch we know, the familiar kitchen, or the rooms filled with the ordinary sounds of family life, but it is a step away from fear and toward something that resembles freedom.
The children’s hospital has carried us through one of the hardest chapters of our lives. Every hallway holds a memory: the moment we arrived with heavy hearts, the long hours of waiting, the relief of hearing that surgery was complete, and the quiet miracle of watching Indy’s smile return. Leaving does not mean we are finished with this journey. Her follow-up appointment is only a few days away, and we will need to stay close in case the doctors need to see her sooner. There will still be medications to remember, instructions to follow, and moments when worry may rise again. Yet the possibility of sleeping somewhere without machines beside the bed feels like a gift.
A hotel room or Airbnb may seem temporary and ordinary to someone else, but to us it will represent progress. It will mean Indy can rest in a softer, quieter place. She can wear her own pajamas, choose what she wants to watch, eat without a hospital tray in front of her, and perhaps look out a window at a world that feels normal again. We may still be only minutes from the hospital, but emotionally, it will feel like we have crossed a great distance.
Home, we are learning, is not always a building. Sometimes it is simply being together without fear controlling every breath. It is hearing laughter after days of tears. It is watching a little girl take careful steps across a room and realizing how precious those steps are. It is sitting close enough to reach for her hand whenever she needs us. Wherever we sleep during the next few nights, that place will become home because Indy will be there, healing, smiling, and reminding us that ordinary life is one of the greatest blessings we can receive.
For the first time in days, we can imagine waking without alarms, opening the curtains to morning sunlight, and making simple plans together. That hope feels fragile, but it is real, and tonight we are holding it with gratitude.
Soon enough, if all goes well at the follow-up appointment, we will begin the drive back to Waco. We will see the farmhouse again, walk through the familiar door, and breathe in the comfort of the life we once took for granted. Until then, we will be grateful for this temporary home near the hospital. It may not be where our journey ends, but it is a beautiful sign that the hardest part may finally be behind us.