October 13th — A date that marks not just another day in the hospital, but another step forward in the incredible recovery journey of little Theo, a tiny warrior whose strength continues to inspire everyone around him.

Just days after undergoing a tracheostomy, Theo is showing steady signs of progress. Yesterday, his medical team successfully weaned his PIP — a ventilator setting that controls the pressure of each breath — down to56 from 58, four points lower than before his trach. It’s a small adjustment by medical standards, but for Theo, it’s a giant leap forward. Every number, every measurement, every breath tells a story — one of healing, resilience, and faith.

Doctors also began using a new device called a TCOM monitor, a glowing patch on Theo’s belly that measures carbon dioxide levels to help the team track whether his ventilator is giving just the right amount of support. It’s another piece of technology helping to balance the delicate rhythm of Theo’s breathing — but in true Theo fashion, he’s not making it easy for them.

Yesterday, the team increased the “trigger” setting on his ventilator — the mechanism that senses when he’s trying to breathe on his own — because Theo was breathing too muchwith or over the vent. To the medical staff, this meant one thing: despite being paralyzed for healing, Theo was still trying to breathe on his own.

“He makes me giggle,” his mother wrote. “It’s like he’s saying, ‘Watch this.’”

It’s that fighting spirit — the one that refuses to stay still, refuses to give up — that defines Theo’s journey.

Today, there were no major changes to his treatment plan, just careful adjustments — tweaking his IV nutrition and slowlyweaning the hydrocortisone steroid he’s been on since surgery. Because Theo was born prematurely, his adrenal glands can’t produce enough cortisol during stress, so doctors give him extra hydrocortisone before and after procedures. Now, they’re cautiously reducing the dose, hoping that it will also lower his blood pressure, which has been running high. Whether that’s due to pain or the steroids, it’s still hard to tell.

Theo’s swelling has also begun to improve. Most of it is localized around his face and mouth — normal after a major surgery like this — but the change is noticeable. “His eyes look almost normal to me,” his mother wrote with relief. “Of course, he’s not opening them because he’s paralyzed, but if he could, I bet they’d be wide open!”

Wednesday will bring another milestone — Theo’s first official trach change, performed by the ENT team. Once that’s done, all post-op protocols will be lifted. It’s a big step toward stability, and possibly, toward lifting his paralytic medications soon after.

Every moment is filled with cautious optimism, every decision made with the precision that comes from months of living inside the fragile balance of intensive care. But amid the machines, the monitors, and the constant hum of the ventilator, faith remains the family’s steady heartbeat.

On her way back to the hospital this morning, Theo’s mom stopped by the mailbox — a small act of routine in a life that no longer feels routine. Inside, she found a package from a church that sends monthly encouragement to families walking through the trenches of childhood illness. Inside was a book, a card, and a verse that sent chills through her —Psalm 150:6:
“Let everything that has breath praise the Lord.”

She couldn’t have imagined a more fitting reminder — not after everything Theo has endured, not after the trach that now helps him breathe easier. The timing was no coincidence; it was a whisper of grace in the middle of hardship, a reminder that every breath — no matter how labored, no matter how assisted — is sacred.

Theo’s story is one of struggle, yes, but even more, it’s one of perseverance and divine timing. His life is a testament to how faith and medicine, love and science, can intertwine to create something extraordinary — a daily miracle unfolding in quiet hospital rooms and midnight prayers.

As his mother reflects on these past days — the fear, the exhaustion, the moments of laughter amid the tears — she can’t help but feel grateful. For every doctor and nurse who fights alongside Theo. For every prayer whispered by strangers who have come to love her little boy from afar. For every sign, every small miracle, that reminds her that Theo’s story isn’t over.

“God is so good,” she writes.

And He is. Because even here — in the sterile, fluorescent-lit corners of a hospital — there is life. There is hope. There is a little boy who keeps defying the odds, breathing when he shouldn’t be able to, fighting when it would be easier to rest, and reminding the world thatevery breath matters.

Theo is trekking along — one small victory, one glowing monitor, one miracle at a time.