Let It Be Love

If you could have something named after you, what would it be?

If I could have one thing named after me, it would be Love.

Not the kind that gets wrapped in ribbons and saved for holidays. Not just romantic love, or the kind between a parent and child. I’m talking about the kind of love that shows up quietly and powerfully, like the smile from a stranger that reaches you at the exact moment you need it. The kind of love that listens without trying to fix. The love that pulls you into alignment with your soul.

After facing cancer and having a near-death experience, I came to understand something I had never fully grasped before: Love is all there is.

As a young teacher, I had love for my students, but my career didn’t feel fulfilling. I was always searching, chasing more meaning, more money, more purpose. Even after becoming a wife and mother, experiencing a love so selfless and immense it cracked me open in new ways, I still hadn’t yet learned to love myself.

Then came February 14, 2018. While the world celebrated love, my nieces were on lockdown next door to the tragedy at Stoneman Douglas High. They hid in closets for six hours as gunfire echoed through their campus. I stayed on the phone with my sister, listening to her fear, praying with her, sending every word I could muster from a place of love. Our prayers were answered. But so many others were not. That day, something shifted in me. Love pulled me back to my purpose. I felt called to return to teaching, not for a career, but as a calling. A place to protect and serve with love.

I was hired on the spot for a kindergarten position at my old school. I had twelve beautiful days with my students before my cancer diagnosis changed everything.

And then… I left this world.

Not permanently. But enough to experience what waits beyond. I had what can only be described as a face-to-face encounter with God. And in that moment, everything changed.

There was no tunnel. No booming voice. Just presence. Pure presence. God didn’t look like anything I could describe, but I knew. I knew. And I felt more love than I have ever known, multiplied by a trillion. It wasn’t just emotional. It was physical, cellular. Every cell in my body was embraced by it. I didn’t hear words with my ears, but I received them telepathically, instantly, clearly. God’s message was simple:

“You’ve done well. I’m proud of you.”

That alone undid me. Because never in my earthly life had I received that kind of pride, that level of unconditional love. There was no judgment. No list of things I hadn’t done. Only warmth. Peace. Understanding.

I was told time wasn’t real. Fear wasn’t real. Only love existed.

God showed me that everything I had ever loved was already on the other side. That dying was like closing your eyes and waking up to find everything and everyone you’ve ever loved standing right there with you. Love is Home.

And then I was given a choice.

I could stay and know eternal peace. Or I could return. If I returned, I would be granted miracles, but the road wouldn’t be easy. I thought of my children. Even knowing they’d be with me on the other side one day, I saw what their lives might look like if I left now. I saw their grief, their confusion, the heaviness of navigating this life without their mother. And I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let that be their path, not yet.

So I chose love again. I chose to stay.

And here I am. Cancer-free. Still human. Still growing. But forever changed.

I returned to teaching special education at a local charter school. And despite the occasional energy vampire (whom we lovingly refer to as Gremlins), I love what I do. Because now, everything I do is rooted in love, not performance, not perfection, not pressure. Just love.

Love is my legacy. My language. My north star.

So if anything were ever to be named after me, let it be Love. Let it be the kind of love that listens, that uplifts, that chooses presence. The kind that survives cancer, overcomes fear, and meets God face to face.

Because love is all that exists. And it’s the only thing we truly take with us when we go