Amie Unfiltered

07/14/2026

What is wrong with me?

Don't answer that it's a rhetorical question! 🤣

I do not want to gain a bunch of weight while I’m on these steroids.

So naturally, I bought a bag of Donettes because I wanted a tiny, tasty treat.

My logic was flawless:
“I’ll just have one.”

One now.
One later.
One a little later.
One because I walked by the kitchen.
One because… well… they’re tiny.

Turns out, I cannot be trusted AND they are 56 calories for 1! A single Donette... I can finish a bag in under 10 min(if that)! I’m like a rabid raccoon with a bag of powdered donuts...

sneaky & relentless!🦝🤣

The steroids may be increasing my appetite, but my love of sugar is sending me over the edge! 🤦🏼‍♀️🤷‍♀️🤣

07/09/2026

Well, my doctor’s appointment started with a near-death experience. 🤦‍♀️

And by near-death experience, I mean I was walking in, minding my own business, when I spotted what appeared to be a snake. 🐍

Naturally, I went full survival mode.

I zigged.
I zagged.
I probably invented a new medical-office line dance.

Only to realize…

It was not a snake.

It was part of someone’s weave.

Tony and I absolutely lost it laughing.

Nothing says “welcome to your appointment” like fighting for your life against a rogue hair extension in the parking lot. 😂🤣😂🤷‍♀️🤦‍♀️

07/09/2026

The Day My Hole Was Too Tight

My trach hole.

Get your minds out of the gutter!

Yesterday started with what was supposed to be a simple vet appointment.

Instead, it turned into me wrestling cats after a failed vet visit, like I had been unwillingly cast in some kind of low-budget feline WWE match. I was sweaty, frustrated, and ready to be home.

That's when my trach fell out! 👀

For someone who has never lived this life, that might sound like a scary inconvenience. For me, it is so much more than that. It is not just a physical problem. It is an emotional and psychological one too. It is trauma. It is panic. It is every memory of airway emergencies, surgeries, fear, and survival crashing back in all at once.

And this time, we were 35 minutes from home with no trach supplies. What most people do not understand is how quickly the body works to close a stoma. I know all too well.

Once we got home I gathered all the supplies. Then came the next blow: when we opened the box, we discovered there was a cuffed trach in a cuffless box. The wrong trach. In a moment where every second matters, that discovery felt cruel.

Tony wanted to take me to the ER, and I understood why. He was scared, and honestly, so was I. But all I could think was that waiting in an emergency room meant more time for the hole to close. We are 1,000 miles away from my doctors...the people who know my airway, my anatomy, my scar tissue, and the complexities of my medical history. I also knew I had eaten, which meant anesthesia would not be a simple answer either.

All of that was racing through my head at once.

That is the thing about PTSD. It is never just about the current moment. It is the current moment colliding with every terrifying moment that came before it.

It was not just, What do we do now?
It was, What if we cannot get it back in? What if we run out of time? What if we end up in an ER that does not understand my airway? What if we are right back in the middle of the nightmare we fought so hard to survive before?

And as much as this was happening to me, it was happening to Tony too.
People do not always talk enough about what medical trauma does to the person standing beside you. The spouse. The caregiver. The one who has to stay calm while the person they love is in danger. The one who has to make decisions while fear is pounding in their own chest. The one who has to do the very thing they are terrified will hurt you because not doing it would be worse.

We prepped the trach, took a breath, and tried to pretend this was going to be simple.

Then my worst fear came true.

It would not go in.

Normally, my trach glides in.

This one did not.

Not a little resistance. Not a quick adjustment. It would not go in and in that moment, I was terrified.

I looked at him and said "Babe, I love you, but you're going to have to hurt me a little to save my hole."🤭 because even during the scary moments I have to make him laugh!

He told me he did not want to hurt me.

And I told him we did not have a choice.

He had to force it through while the opening was already tightening. I felt the burn of stretching skin. I tasted blood. I felt my body remembering every ounce of trauma it has carried for years.

But he did it.
He got it in.
And we were okay.
At least physically.

Emotionally, that is another story.
Because I did what trauma has taught me to do: I stayed calm in the moment. I focused. I gave instructions. I made it through the emergency first.

Then it was over.

And I lost it.

That is the part people do not always understand about PTSD. Sometimes you do not fall apart during the crisis. Sometimes your body knows there is no time for that. Sometimes it waits until the danger has passed, until the adrenaline starts to wear off, until you are finally safe enough to feel what just happened.

And then it all hits.

The fear.
The shaking.
The grief.
The anger.
The exhaustion.
The overwhelming realization that something can be over and still leave you wrecked.

Some couples build trust through date nights and deep conversations.
Tony and I apparently build trust through emergency airway management and emotional damage.

There is humor in that, because sometimes humor is the only way to soften the sharpest edges of a life like this. But beneath it is something very real: love sometimes looks nothing like romance. Sometimes it looks like fear, shaking hands, impossible decisions, and doing the hard thing because the person you love needs you to.

Yesterday shook both of us.

We are okay today.

But “okay” does not mean unaffected.
It means we survived another hard moment. It means we are carrying the emotional aftermath. It means medical trauma leaves scars no one can see.

And yesterday, once again, Tony and I faced something terrifying together and somehow made it through.

07/01/2026

😂🤣😂 I will never forget the look on Kyle's face!!

There are moments in life that define you.

Graduations. Weddings. Career milestones.

And then there’s the time my trach cap launched itself across a company meeting like it had been personally selected for a weapons demonstration.

Picture it: a nice professional meeting, everyone seated around the conference table, the company president talking, the new guy trying to make a good first impression…

And then POP.

My trach cap went airborne like it had filed a flight plan and smacked the poor new guy right in the chest.

His face turned red. Everyone froze for half a second. Then the whole room lost it.

Naturally, because I am nothing if not supportive in a crisis, I looked at him and said:

“You didn’t know you were getting the firing squad on your first day?!”

Welcome to the team, buddy. Around me, even medical equipment has a sense of humor.😎

From henceforth, please understand that my trach is not just an airway it is also apparently a projectile launcher with comedic timing. 😂🤣

06/30/2026

There are moments in life that define you.

Graduations. Weddings. Career milestones.

And then there’s the time my trach cap launched itself across a company meeting like it had been personally selected for a weapons demonstration.

Picture it: a nice professional meeting, everyone seated around the conference table, the company president talking, the new guy trying to make a good first impression…

And then POP.

My trach cap went airborne like it had filed a flight plan and smacked the poor new guy right in the chest.

His face turned red. Everyone froze for half a second. Then the whole room lost it.

Naturally, because I am nothing if not supportive in a crisis, I looked at him and said:

“You didn’t know you were getting the firing squad on your first day?!”

Welcome to the team, buddy. Around me, even medical equipment has a sense of humor.😎

From henceforth, please understand that my trach is not just an airway it is also apparently a projectile launcher with comedic timing. 😂🤣

06/26/2026

She’s Got My Nose!

Recently, a childhood friend found me on Facebook after more than thirty years.

Thirty years.

That’s long enough to lose your keys, your coffee, and even your mind! But somehow, childhood memories don’t disappear they just wait for the right person to bring them back.

And she did.

She remembered the hard parts of my childhood the surgeries, the playground, the scary moments, and the pieces I usually turn into the short version because, honestly, nobody has time for the full director’s cut of Amie: The Medical Years.

But she also remembered the funny parts.

One of my favorite memories she shared with me was of us walking down the school hallway when we were in 5th grade and I had a trach. I would hand her the cap. Then, as other kids passed by, I would point at her and proudly announce:

“She’s got my nose!”

Except it wasn’t my nose.

It was my trach cap that filtered like a "nose".

And apparently, to ten-year-old me, that was peak comedy.

We weren’t trying to make a statement about disability, inclusion, or medical trauma. We weren’t carefully managing anyone’s discomfort. We were just kids being goofy in a school hallway.

But looking back now, I realize that little joke did something beautiful.

It took the thing that made me different and made it playful. It took something medical and made it mine. It turned the stares into laughter not cruel laughter, not the kind that wounds, but the kind that says, “Come on, this is funny. You can laugh with me.”

Maybe that was my way, even back then, of taking back a little bit of control.

Because when you are a child with a birth defect, so much of your life belongs to doctors, nurses, surgeries, rules, fear, and adults explaining things around you.

But in that hallway, for that moment, the trach cap belonged to me.

The joke belonged to me.

My story belonged to me.

And my friends laughed with me.

Not at me.

With me.

That’s the part that still gets me.

My childhood had a lot of hard in it. A lot of moments no child should have to carry. But my friends helped me survive the difficult parts without even knowing they were doing it.

They didn’t make me feel different. They didn’t stare. They didn’t tiptoe around me. They didn’t treat me like I was breakable.

They just treated me like Amie.

Their friend.

The goofy one.

The dramatic one.

The one apparently running a full hallway comedy act with medical equipment.

Reconnecting with my friend brought back emotions I wasn’t ready for, but I’m grateful for them. She reminded me that my childhood wasn’t only hospitals, fear, and hard things.

It was also laughter.

It was friendship.

It was being surrounded by kids who didn’t need a perfect explanation to love me exactly as I was.

Maybe that’s what real friendship does. It helps you carry the heavy stuff without making every moment feel heavy.

It lets you be scared and silly.

Different and included.

Medically complicated and still completely ridiculous.

That little girl with the trach needed friends who could laugh with her.

And she had them.

Thirty years later, I can see what a gift that really was.

“She’s got my nose!”

Still funny.

Still weird.

Still one of the sweetest memories of my life..

06/25/2026

Side Effects May Include Whiskers

Yes, AI created this photo.

But the hallucination that inspired it?

That was all me.

This actually happened.

While I was in recovery at the hospital, I had been given medication, and apparently my brain decided the sterile medical environment needed a little razzle-dazzle. Not flowers. Not angels. Not some profound vision of the afterlife.

Nope.

Cats.

Specifically, adorable little cats dangling out of glove boxes on the wall like they were hospital-issued emotional support gremlins who had unionized and were now on break.

And let me tell you, I was absolutely delighted.

This is also where AI becomes such an incredible tool. Because no, this exact photo did not happen. There were not actual cats dangling from the glove boxes. The hospital did not secretly install a feline medical supply department, although I still think that would greatly improve patient satisfaction. But this image lets me show you what I saw. Considering my artistic abilities are somewhere between “aggressive stick figure” and “is that supposed to be a cat or a haunted potato?” AI gave me a way to bring that ridiculous little recovery-room hallucination to life.

That matters to me.

Because some stories are hard to explain. Some moments are so strange, funny, emotional, or surreal that words alone do not quite capture them. This gave me a way to say, “Here. This is what my brain saw. This is why we were all laughing. This is why I still remember it.”

There I was, fresh out of surgery, surrounded by beeping machines, bright lights, nurses, tubes, wires, and all the usual “my soul has returned, but my brain is still buffering” recovery-room energy and suddenly, I looked over and saw the cutest thing my drugged-up brain could possibly create.

Tiny cats.

In glove boxes.

Just hanging there like they had clocked in for their shift.

One little paw dangling.
One little face peeking out.
One tiny feline employee clearly violating several OSHA regulations and absolutely not concerned about it.

I was so happy.

Not mildly amused. Not confused. HAPPY.

Like, “cancel my discharge, I live here now” happy.

I was looking at those glove boxes like the hospital had finally upgraded its interior design.

Forget artwork. Forget calming ocean prints. Forget the fake plant in the corner that looks like it gave up in 2007.

Give me the wall-mounted cat dispensers.

My husband was entertained.

Actually, “entertained” is generous. He was trying not to laugh like a maniac while I was fully committed to the reality of my new feline cohorts.

The staff was entertained too.

And I was over there acting like I had discovered the secret VIP recovery package.

“Excuse me, nurse, are the kittens standard with anesthesia, or did I accidentally upgrade to the deluxe hallucination plan? Because I would like to leave a five-star review.”

In that moment, those cats brought me joy. They gave me something soft and ridiculous to focus on when my body was exhausted, my brain was scrambled, and reality was apparently taking a short coffee break.

That’s the weird thing about hospital recovery. Your body is fighting. Your mind is trying to catch up. Time feels strange. The room feels strange. You are vulnerable in a way that is hard to explain unless you’ve lived it.

And sometimes, in the middle of all of that, your brain says, “You know what would help? Three cats dangling from medical supplies like tiny, judgmental supervisors.”

Because I truly believed they were there.

Not “haha, this is weird” believed.

No.

“I should probably ask if I’m allowed to pet them” believed.
“I wonder if they rotate shifts” believed.
“I hope someone is feeding them” believed.

Meanwhile, my husband is watching me and trying not to cry laughing.

And honestly? I don’t blame him.

Because if the roles were reversed, I would have been on the floor.

As funny as this memory is, it also taught me something important:

My brain has a flair for the dramatic.

Give it the slightest opportunity, and it will redecorate reality like it’s on a home makeover show.

“Welcome back! Today we’re transforming this sterile recovery room into a whimsical feline distribution center!”

And apparently, I am not consulted in these decisions.

Still, I can’t help but laugh when I think about it.

Because if anyone was going to hallucinate cats in glove boxes while recovering in a hospital, of course it was me.

Other people might see shadows.

I saw a full feline medical supply department.

So yes, this photo is AI.

But the story behind it is real.

It is funny.
It is weird.
It is ridiculous.

Because healing is not always graceful.
Recovery is not always pretty.
And sometimes survival looks like laughing at the bizarre little gifts your brain gives you when your body is trying to heal.

Welcome to Amie Unfiltered where the hallucinations come with whiskers. 🐈‍⬛🤷‍♀️😎🐾😂🤣

06/24/2026

Fear Changes You

I was a child.

A little girl who should have been worried about homework, friends, sleepovers, bike rides, and whether my bangs looked ridiculous. Instead, I was being rolled toward a surgery that carried a very real chance I might not survive.

How does a child process that?

The truth is… I don’t think you do. Not fully. Not at 10.

You smile because the adults need you to be brave.
You stay quiet because everyone around you is already scared.
You try to act normal because normal is what people seem to want from you.

But inside, something shifts.

Fear like that does not just visit you and leave. It moves in. It becomes part of the way you see the world. Part of the way you listen to doctors. Part of the way you read people’s faces. Part of the way your body reacts before your mind even catches up.

And then, somehow, you are expected to go on like nothing happened.

You go back to school.
You answer questions.
You try to fit in.
You try to be “just a kid.”

But you are never just a kid again.

Because once you have looked at fear that closely, once you have understood that your body is different, fragile, complicated, unpredictable… you cannot unknow it.

No child should have to carry that.

No child should have to understand mortality before they understand long division. No child should have to be praised for being “so brave” when what they really are is terrified. No child should have to learn how to comfort adults while they are the one lying in the hospital bed.

And no child should have to feel different in a world that already makes different feel lonely.

I knew I was not like everyone else. I knew my body came with extra rules, extra risks, extra stares, extra explanations. I knew there were things other kids could do without thinking that I had to think about every single day.

That kind of knowing changes you.

It can make you guarded. It can make you funny. It can make you tough as hell. It can make you hyper-aware, stubborn, sarcastic, compassionate, exhausted, and determined all at the same time.

For years, I thought being strong meant pretending fear did not affect me.

Now I know better.

Strength is not the absence of fear. Strength is being honest about what fear did to you and still choosing to live anyway.

That little girl in the picture was scared.

She had every right to be.

And I wish I could go back, hold her hand, and tell her she did not have to be brave for everyone else. She did not have to make the room feel better. She did not have to understand it all. She did not have to be normal.

She only had to survive.

And she did.

But survival is not simple. It leaves marks. Some you can see. Some you cannot. Some show up decades later when you realize you have been carrying emotions no child should have ever been handed.

So this is for her.

For the scared little girl on the way to surgery.
For the child who knew too much too soon.
For the version of me who learned fear before freedom.

I see you now.

You were not dramatic.
You were not weak.
You were not broken.

You were a child facing something enormous.

And you became a woman who is still here, still fighting, still laughing, still telling the truth.

Fear changed me.

But it did not get to finish the story. So here I am.

Scarred. Stubborn. Still standing.

Telling the truth I had to carry quietly for far too long.

Not polished. Not watered down. Not packaged neatly for anyone else’s comfort.

Just me.

Amie Unfiltered✨

06/23/2026

Eight Years of Freedom… and the Fight to Find It Again

For eight years, I lived trach-free.

Eight years.

That may not sound like much to some people, but to me, it was freedom.

It was showering without a full engineering plan.
It was swimming without fear sitting on my shoulder.
It was breathing through my own airway and feeling like my body had finally given me a little piece of peace.
It was the closest thing to normal I had known in a very long time.

And then, just like that, I had to have a trach placed again.

I wish I could say I handled it with grace, confidence, and inspirational background music.

But the truth?

It knocked the wind out of me.

Emotionally, it felt like going backward. It felt like losing a battle I thought I had already won. It felt unfair in a way I still do not fully know how to explain. After everything my body has survived, after every surgery, every scar, every hard recovery, every time I convinced myself to get back up again… this one hurt differently.

Because I remember what freedom felt like.

And having something taken from you after you have tasted freedom is a special kind of heartbreak.

I have felt sad.
I have felt angry.
I have felt defeated.
I have looked in the mirror and thought, “Seriously? We are doing this again?”

Apparently my body enjoys a dramatic plot twist.

I would like to speak to the manager.

But here is the thing about me: I can feel defeated and still not be done.

Those two things can exist at the same time.

I can cry over what I lost and still fight for what comes next.
I can hate this trach and still be grateful it helped save me.
I can feel brokenhearted and still be powerful.
I can have a bad day and still be a badass.

This is not the comeback story I wanted.

I wanted the cute version. The glowing version. The version where I gracefully overcame everything, wore mascara, had good lighting, and inspired everyone without needing suction supplies nearby.

Instead, I got the unfiltered version.

The messy one.
The swollen one.
The one with medical tape, dark humor, and a woman staring at herself in the mirror trying to recognize her own strength again.

But I am still here.

And that matters.

I am still laughing.
I am still fighting.
I am still making inappropriate jokes at wildly inappropriate times.
I am still finding tiny pieces of joy in a body that has tested me since day one.

So yes, I am sad.

Yes, I feel like I got body-slammed by life, then handed a trach and told to “stay positive.”

And yes, some days I want to throw the entire inspirational quote industry into the trash.

But I am not giving up.

I fought too hard for those eight years of freedom to believe freedom is gone forever.

Maybe this is a detour.
Maybe this is a chapter I never wanted to write.
Maybe this is one more battle scar in a story that already has enough plot twists to qualify as a medical soap opera.

But it is not the end of me.

Not even close.

I may be grieving.
I may be tired.
I may be wearing my least favorite neck accessory again.

But I am still Amie.

Unfiltered. Unpolished. Occasionally unhinged.

And absolutely unwilling to fold!💪🏻