For tomorrow's they haven't met yet 💜
Throughout November, I'll be running 213 kilometres to raise money for premature babies and their families.
I've spent a considerable amount of time thinking about the fragility of human life. Perhaps more than most people my age. Not necessarily because I find death frightening, but because I find the existence of life itself so extraordinary.
We spend so much of our lives assuming there will be more of it. Another birthday, another Christmas, another ordinary Tuesday. We make plans for next week, next month, next year, rarely considering how much of our existence depends on the simple assumption that tomorrow will arrive.
And for most of us, it does.
But for some families, that uncertainty begins before their child has even had the opportunity to come home.
There is something profoundly confronting about the idea that a life can begin with such an enormous fight to continue. That while the rest of the world carries on with its ordinary routines, somewhere there are parents sitting beside an incubator, learning medical terminology they never wanted to understand, watching monitors they wish they didn't recognise, hoping that tomorrow brings something as seemingly insignificant as another gram gained, another breath taken independently, another day without complications.
Things the rest of us would never think to celebrate.
I've always believed that one of the most meaningful things healthcare can offer somebody is time.
Not immortality. Not a guarantee that everything will be okay. Simply time.
Another hour. Another day. Another opportunity for something that might otherwise never had happened.
And I think there's something particularly heartbreaking about how differently we value time depending on how much of it we believe we have.
We spend our childhoods wishing we were older. Our weekdays waiting for the weekend. Our working lives looking forward to the next holiday. We wish away the very thing that somebody else is desperately hoping to have.
And somewhere, there is a premature baby whose entire existence is being measured in hours, whose parents are hoping for a future the rest of us barely stop to appreciate.
A future of scraped knees, first days of school, growing pains, mistakes, ordinary disappointments and completely forgettable Tuesdays.
An entire life that hasn't had the chance to become ordinary yet.
Studying to become a paramedic has only reinforced my understanding that medicine cannot promise us forever. The human body is extraordinary resilient and extraordinary fragile, sometimes in the very same moment. But through research, specialised care and the dedication of health professionals, we can sometimes give people something that cannot be replaced.
71 premature babies are born every day.
So this November, I'll be running 213 kilometres for premmie babies.
Not because running that distance comes anywhere close to understanding what these families experiences, but because I have the privilege of being healthy enough to do it. Because my body allows me to get up in the morning, put on a pair of running shoes and worry about something as trivial as my pace.
And because somewhere, there are families who would give anything for their biggest concern to be something so ordinary.
If you're in a position to donate, I'd be incredibly grateful for your support. Every contribution helps support premature babies and their families through some of the most uncertain moments of their lives.
None of us know how much time we have. Perhaps that's what makes it so valuable.
Because sometimes the most extraordinary thing we can give somebody is the chance to live an entirely ordinary life.
And sometimes, tomorrow is everything
Proud of you every single day. From Mum, Grandma and Grandad