Sometimes in the stillness of the CVICU, when the machines hum softly and the monitors blink in their endless rhythm, I catch myself asking—what just happened?

It has been four weeks since the call that changed everything. Four weeks since the moment we heard the words we had prayed for, the words that felt too heavy, too sacred to even dream about. Four weeks since Camilo was given his miracle, his second chance at life. And yet, even as I sit here now, I still can’t fully wrap my mind around it.

There’s a strange numbness that lingers in me, a kind of haze I can’t shake. Maybe it’s because we are still in the thick of recovery mode, where every day is consumed with medical terms, wound care, and endless alarms. Maybe it’s because so much of this feels eerily familiar. We’ve walked this road before, through the long corridors of children’s hospitals, through the weight of open-heart surgeries. The tubes, the IV poles, the ventilators—they aren’t new to us. They echo the past, pulling me back to memories I sometimes wish I could forget. Perhaps my mind, in its own way, is shielding me from the full gravity of it all, protecting me from breaking under the trauma of these last few weeks.

The other day someone looked at me with a smile and said, “You’re post-transplant now.” For a moment, I just stared back. The words didn’t quite land. I actually paused, then smiled politely. Later, it hit me in a wave.

Wait—we are. He is. That realization caught me off guard, almost like waking up in someone else’s life.

Even now, as I write these words, I glance up at my boy. Camilo lies in the hospital bed, his chest still marked with fresh stitches, his body fighting through withdrawals, his breathing steady but supported by machines. I watch him twitch in his sleep, then slowly settle, his face softening into the innocence of rest. And I think to myself:

My son got a new heart. A whole new heart is beating inside his chest.

Those words are both beautiful and impossible. A heart transplant is one of those miracles that feels like it belongs to someone else’s story, something you might read about in a magazine or see on the news. And yet, here we are—living it.

It is strange. Beautiful. Unbelievable.

When we got “the call,” it was as if time itself froze. My hands shook. My breath caught. For so long, we had waited by the phone, prayed by the bed, begged heaven for a second chance. And then suddenly, in the space of one ordinary moment, the extraordinary arrived. They had a heart. A match. A gift.

And what a gift it was.

Camilo’s new heart didn’t just come from a hospital or a surgeon’s hands—it came from love born out of unimaginable loss. It came from a family who, in their darkest hour, chose life for someone else. I cannot begin to imagine the depth of their grief, the weight of their sacrifice. Somewhere out there, a family said goodbye to their precious child. And in the midst of their sorrow, they chose to give. To give us hope. To give my son life. There are no words large enough to carry that gratitude. It feels holy, untouchable, sacred.

I sometimes imagine what Camilo will think when he is old enough to truly understand. Right now, I don’t think he has fully grasped the magnitude of what has taken place. He knows he’s sore. He knows he’s tired. He knows the doctors are proud of him and that we’re celebrating him every day. But the deeper truth—that another heart beats inside his chest, a golden heart gifted to him by a stranger—hasn’t sunk in yet.

I look forward to the day it does. The day he realizes that he is carrying someone else’s legacy inside of him. The day he feels the miracle not just physically, but spiritually. When he comes to me and says, “Mom, I get it now. I understand.” I can’t wait to hear his thoughts, his emotions, the way he will process this story that is his to carry for the rest of his life. I know, without a doubt, that when that moment comes, he will be overwhelmed with gratitude too.

These last four weeks have not been easy. Recovery from a transplant is grueling. There are ups and downs, moments of hope followed by setbacks that test your courage. There are long nights of worry, endless check-ins from doctors, and the constant hum of machines. We’ve sat by his side as he’s battled pain, as he’s struggled to breathe on his own, as his body has adjusted to this new heart. And yet, through it all, there has been light.

There has been the joy of hearing his new heartbeat for the first time—a strong, steady rhythm that filled the room with something sacred. There has been the wonder of watching his color return, his cheeks no longer pale but touched with life. There has been the gratitude of every new day, each one proof that the gift is real, that the miracle is here.

Sometimes I catch myself watching his chest rise and fall, and I whisper a silent thank-you—to the donor, to the doctors, to God, to the universe—for allowing this moment to exist. For allowing my son to live.

We are not naïve. We know the road ahead will still hold challenges. A transplant is not a cure, but a beginning. There will be medications, follow-up surgeries, and years of monitoring. But none of that frightens me the way it once might have. Because we have been given this chance, and with it comes hope.

We are deeply, humbly blessed.

So we move forward, step by step, slow and steady. Each day brings a little more healing, a little more strength. Each day, Camilo gets closer to leaving behind the machines and stepping into life again. And when that day comes—when he walks out of this hospital with a brand-new heart beating inside him—I know it will finally feel real.

Until then, I sit here in the stillness, listening to the quiet hum of life around me, holding onto gratitude so vast it cannot be put into words. My son has a new heart. A beautiful golden heart. And with it, he has tomorrow.