Dear Life,
Dear God,
Dear anyone who needs this reminder right now,
I’ve been meaning to write this, but honestly, I didn’t know how to put it into words
without my chest tightening again. So I’ll just say it the only way I know how—raw, imperfect, and real.
Last week, my daughter had boogers.
Just a normal, annoying, wipe-your-nose kind of cold.
The next morning, we were rushing her to the ER.
Bronchospasms.
Early pneumonia.
Oxygen tubes strapped to her tiny face.
Five days in the hospital.
Five days that felt like five months.
If you’re a parent, you already know the kind of fear I’m talking about.
The kind that lives in your stomach and doesn’t let go. The kind that makes every
beep of a machine feel louder than it should. The kind that forces you to smile for your
child while your mind is spiraling through every worst-case scenario it can imagine.
And if that wasn’t enough, there was another layer to it—watching my wife go through it.
Seeing the fear in her eyes.
The worry she tried to hide.
The strength she carried because someone had to.
That shit hits different.
As a husband, you want to fix everything.
As a father, you want to trade places.
And when you can’t do either, the helplessness is brutal.
Then came the insurance setbacks.
The calls.
The fine print.
The “we’ll see.”
The holidays creeping closer.
A family trip we had been looking forward to—gone.
All of it happening just days before Christmas.
I’d be lying if I said I handled it with grace the whole time.
I WAS ANGRY, BRO.
Angry at the situation.
Angry at the timing.
And yes—angry at God.
I remember thinking, Why?
Why now? Why her? Why couldn’t it be me instead?
It felt like punishment. Like some invisible scoreboard I didn’t know I was losing.
Saturday night is when it all finally caught up to me.
I came home after finding out it was going to be a fight to get anything
covered or reimbursed. I was exhausted. Frustrated. Empty. And just like the past few days…
it was just me, and our 2 dogs I had to come home for. (Yep, had to leave the girls at the hospital)
I sat down.
And I broke.
For twenty minutes, I cried harder than I have in a long time.
Not quiet tears.
Not controlled ones.
The kind that shake your body.
The kind that come from somewhere deeper than your chest.
Months—maybe years—of frustration, anger, pressure, and hurt just poured out.
And as the tears hit my cheeks and soaked my shirt, something else happened.
The weight on my shoulders fell off.
Not slowly.
Not metaphorically.
It felt real.
I asked God for forgiveness—not because I had doubts, but because
I realized something important in that moment: I’m human.
And my anger didn’t scare Him. It didn’t lessen His love for me.
It didn’t change anything about who He is or how He sees me.
And then came the peace.
No voices.
No visions.
No miracles.
Just a presence.
A warmth. Like a hug that said, You’re not alone.
Everything will be okay.
Trust.
It’s a feeling I’ve only felt a handful of times in my life.
And I’ll never forget it.
As men, we don’t talk enough about moments like this.
We’re taught to be strong.
To hold it together.
To protect.
To provide.
Especially in front of our families.
But strength doesn’t mean never falling apart.
Sometimes it means knowing when to let yourself fall
so you can stand back up with clearer vision.
Crying doesn’t make you weak.
Letting go doesn’t make you less of a man.
Admitting you’re overwhelmed doesn’t mean you’re failing.
It means you’re human.
That night reminded me of what actually matters.
Health.
Love.
Presence.
Faith.
Money comes and goes.
Plans change.
Trips can be rescheduled.
But your loved ones?
That’s priceless.
And here we are now.
After five long days, two days before Christmas, I get to have my girls home again.
Under the same roof. Safe. Healing. Together.
No flights.
No big plans.
Just us.
And honestly?
That’s everything.
If this letter reaches you at a moment when life feels heavy, unpredictable, or unfair,
I hope it reminds you of this: things can change in an instant. So can perspective.
Be grateful—not because life is easy, but because love is still there.
Let yourself feel—because holding it all in only weighs you down.
And trust—because even in the mess, you’re not walking alone.
With gratitude,
With humility,
And with my whole heart.
—Tore