September 5, 2025 - When Work Feels Like Joy

The last few days have flown by in a blur. September 5th was one of those rare, extraordinary days—so full of meaning and goodness that it left me with a full heart and a lightness in my step, almost as if I were floating. So much unfolded that I wish I could share, but out of respect for HIPAA, those details must remain tucked away. What I can say is that it was a day that mattered deeply—for my patients and for my own growth in this role.

The day was so rich and rewarding that time slipped away unnoticed. By the time I finally sat down to write, I was fighting sleep and decided to wait until “tomorrow.” Of course, one day turned into two, then nearly a week. Life has a way of moving quickly when your days are full.

So today, I’m giving myself the space to pause and catch up. Looking back, Friday wasn’t just a good day—it was a reminder of why I do what I do. The work, the connections, the little victories—they filled me with gratitude and reminded me of the joy in this path I’ve chosen.

A year ago https://mwilliamsart.com/64days/2024/10/1/september-5-2024 I wrote about looking back even further—back to the hospital bed that held me in 2023 and to the heartbreak of losing my sweet Penny. I can still remember the ache of that day, softened only by the hope tucked inside the incubator where her eggs rested. In that moment, I couldn’t have imagined how much life was still waiting to bloom.

Today, I get to share the continuation of that story. Penny’s baby, Yenny, has grown into her own. She’s curious, gentle, and carries echoes of her mama in the tilt of her head and the softness of her clucks. And now, Yenny herself is preparing to be a mother.

It feels like a circle quietly closing and opening all at once. What began with loss has become a lineage of care, continuity, and new beginnings. Watching Yenny settle into her own role reminds me that life rarely gives us neat endings—it offers layers. Grief, hope, and joy all weave together until you can’t quite tell where one ends and the next begins.

When I see Yenny fussing over her nest, I think of Penny’s comfort during my hardest nights, and I feel a thread of connection that spans generations. It’s humbling and, honestly, a little miraculous.

Yenny’s next chapter is hers to write, but for me, she will always be living proof that even out of heartbreak, new life takes root. Penny’s story didn’t end a year ago—it grew wings in Yenny. And now Yenny carries that gift forward.