We walked into a packed Waffle House. All booths taken. Two cooks and two waitresses running offense.

“Let’s sit at the bar,” said Morgan.

Morgan is a 20-year-old UAB student. She is beautiful and slight. Her hair is violently red.

We sat on stools and looked at menus.

“Let’s split a waffle,” said Morgan.

There was an elderly couple at the bar beside us. You could tell they were married because they weren’t talking to each other.

Meanwhile, Morgan was swinging her legs on the stool and talking a blue streak.

She has spent the last few years in and out of the hospital. When she is in a hospital, she is not usually talkative. Usually, when I visit her hospital room, Morgan is too exhausted to talk.

But today she’s talking. Happily. Excitedly. Cheerfully. And I’m just trying to keep up as her conversation jumps topics.

“…And did you know dinosaurs were so big because there was WAY MORE oxygen back then, and…?”

“…In my sorority, one time we had this dance party where everyone had to dress up like a…!”

“…Okay, there was this time in the car, and like, my friend was driving, and like, something just felt wrong, and guess what? We were driving the wrong way on the interstate, and…!”

Birmingham is her oyster. This city suits her. She is blossoming here like a hibiscus.

When I first met her, Morgan lived in Locust Fork—a town so small both city-limit signs are nailed to the same post. Birmingham is Morgan’s great adventure. She thrives on the energy of this city, the vitality of its people, and the rapture of afternoon gridlock on Highway 280.

The waitress brings our waffle.

“Will you cut the waffle for me?” she asks.

Morgan is paralyzed on one side of her body. She has blindness. She is diabetic. She has gastroparesis—meaning her intestines are paralyzed. She lives on TPN, which is a form of life support feeding her intravenously. A tube goes into her chest.

Because of her condition, she hasn’t eaten food in a year and a half. All she could tolerate was a few bites of ice cream. Nothing solid.

The last time she was in the hospital, doctors said she wouldn’t likely survive. But then, medical experts have been saying this all her life. And every time—every single time—Morgan defies them.

And she was defying them now. Here in this diner. For it was experts who said she’d never eat again.

Currently, her list of tolerated foods keeps growing. She can now eat one triangle of the waffle.

“I had to learn how to swallow again,” she said. “The muscles in my throat were so weak from not eating for years. And I had to learn how to taste again, too.”

Morgan took about 15 minutes to eat her portion of waffle. No bite was taken for granted.

The older couple was watching with great interest, casting sideways glances. Eavesdropping when Morgan spoke.

Once, Morgan was a runner. Once, she could see. Once, she wasn’t paralyzed and could walk without the aid of a brace.

I asked her whether it’s hard, losing so much.

“Oh, no,” she said, correcting me. “I haven’t lost anything. Nobody ever loses anything. You just gain other things you never knew were coming. Blessings you never had because you had no space for them in your life. But now you do. Now you’re ready for them.”

“Blessings,” I said. “What blessings have you gained?”

With that, Morgan closed her eyes. With a smile on her face, she drew in smells of bacon and waffles. She listened to the sounds of plates and silverware clinking. The sizzle of a flattop grill. The conversations of customers. The energy of the room.

“This,” she said.