On January 21, 2026, at 12:56 in the afternoon, Ryder Jace Futch entered the world—6 pounds, 12 ounces of quiet strength wrapped in something brand new. His arrival didn’t come easily. It was guided, carefully and intentionally, after preeclampsia turned what should have been routine into something watchful, measured, and a little uncertain. But when he arrived, none of that mattered. He was here. Two days later, the first scare came. It was sudden, strange—like something wasn’t quite connecting. For a moment, the world tilted into something unrecognizable. It looked like a stroke, not totally sure what it felt like other that "off", but after the testings everything came back clear. The explanation settled on lingering preeclampsia symptoms. It was enough to send me home. Life pressed forward, as it does. There was a newborn to learn, a rhythm to find. Ryder, growing and changing by the week. Colter, needing steadiness and routine with our new family of 4. Days filled with feedings, small milestones, and the quiet exhaustion of healing. Then March 20 changed everything. This time, it wasn’t a false alarm. A stroke—touching the occipital and thalamus parts of my brain. The parts that shape how we see, how we process, how we connect the world around us into something whole. Vision became unreliable. Blind spots appeared where there once was clarity. Eyes struggle to work together. Focus laggs behind intention, like the world is always half a step out of sync. Confusion and disorientation has improved from it's initial alarming stand out. The ordinary became unfamiliar. But so did strength. In the days that followed, family came—filling the house with extra hands, extra voices, extra love. People rearranged their lives to help rebuild ours. Appointments stacked up: doctors, therapists, specialists. Each one a step toward understanding, toward adapting, toward healing. And in the middle of it all, life doesn't pause. Colter still needs bedtime stories and consistency. Ryder still wakes, still grows, still changes in those fleeting newborn ways that don’t wait for anyone. There are diapers to change, routines to keep, small moments to hold onto. A new way of seeing. Not just the world, even if that had changed—but what matters inside it. Slower moments. Stronger connections. A resilience we didn’t know we carry. And woven through all of it is gratitude. To everyone who has reached out, offered help, shown up, or simply held space for our family—thank you. In the beginning, everything happened so fast, and we didn’t always know what we needed. It was a blur, and so many of our family members stepped in immediately, carrying us through those first overwhelming weeks. Now, as we find ourselves back on our own and leaning into our community and Flagstaff family, we’re beginning to understand what support looks like for us in this new season. We’re so thankful for those who have continued to offer help, and we’re finally ready to take you up on it. We’ve been able to identify some of our needs and organize them in a way that helps us plan a bit more intentionally. Thank you for taking the time to look at this site and for being part of the village helping us move forward. Healing isn’t a straight line. Neither is motherhood. And now, neither is vision. But day by day, appointment by appointment, step by step—we are finding our footing in this new normal. Not the one we planned, but one we are learning to navigate together. And somehow, through all of it, there is still so much to see.
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