Faces of Hope: Caitlyn B. Smith

My name is Caitlyn B. Smith, and I want to start by thanking the Georgia Transplant Foundation for all the incredible work you do to support transplant patients and families. It’s truly an honor to be here as one of this year’s Faces of Hope.  

Giving honor to God, I also want to thank my family, who came out today to support me — my mom, my aunts, uncles, cousins, and all my loved ones who have stood by my side through every chapter of this journey. I truly wouldn’t be here without you.  

Chapter 1: The Diagnosis

Five years ago, I was a healthy, active 25-year-old. I had just gotten my mile run time down, I was exercising regularly, and living what I thought was a perfectly normal life. Moving to Vermont, starting law school, and ready to embark on this next chapter of my life. Then, out of nowhere, I started noticing something strange. My feet were swelling — a lot — and even walking a few steps made my heart rate spike like I’d just sprinted a mile. I brushed it off at first, told myself it was probably nothing serious.  

Doctors initially diagnosed me with an upper respiratory infection. But after more tests, the real answer came — hereditary congestive heart failure. The same condition that took my dad’s life. He had a pacemaker, and I remember thinking, This can’t be happening again. Not me. Not now. At first, I tried to stay positive. I told myself I’d take my medicine and get better. But my body had other plans. The exhaustion was constant — not the kind you sleep off, but the kind that stays with you. I stopped eating. When I did eat, I couldn’t keep food down. I couldn’t even drink much water because of my fluid restriction.  

Looking back, I see that I was in denial. I was still in law school, still planning to finish my semester like nothing was wrong. Around Halloween 2019, I was diagnosed with a pulmonary embolism, and my ejection fraction was around 12%. I thought, Okay, I’ll push through, finish finals, maybe take a break. But the truth was… I was getting worse.  

That time in my life was dark — physically, emotionally, spiritually. It began with optimism, but underneath it all was fear.  

Chapter 2: The Transplant Process

On December 6th, 2019, I went in for what had become my weekly cardiology appointment at Dartmouth Hitchcock Hospital. It was reading period in law school — those sacred few days before finals when everyone camps out in the library. I told my friends I’d be back later that day to study. But that never happened.  

My doctor, Dr. Lauren Gilstrap, who I’ll never forget, came in with concern written all over her face. She told me I wouldn’t be going home that evening — my heart was failing too quickly. A snowstorm was on the way, but they needed to transfer me immediately to Tufts in Boston.  

What’s usually a two-hour drive turned into a four-hour ambulance ride through a blizzard. I remember the sound of the siren, the flashing lights reflecting off the snow, and thinking, How did I get here?  

Meanwhile, back home in Atlanta, my aunt Regina, may she rest in peace — who was always on speakerphone for my appointments — broke the news to my mom. My mom and my aunt Cynt dropped everything, packed, and made their way to Boston. Within hours of being admitted, they walked into my hospital room. I can still remember the relief I felt when I saw them.  

Over the next few weeks, my family rotated shifts so that my mom and I were never alone. My aunts, uncles, cousins — everyone stepped up. It became this village of love surrounding me through every procedure, every update, every scare. One of my last vivid memories before things got critical was lying in my room on the cardiac floor when suddenly the entire medical team rushed in. They asked my mom to step out. I saw the defibrillator pads come out, and I remember asking, “Is this going to hurt?” The next thing I remember is waking up in the ICU, connected to ECMO — life support.  

I was on ECMO for about two weeks. And when you’re awake and aware on life support, your mind goes places. I remember thinking, This is temporary. And I’ve been on it for a while now. I started to wonder if this was the end.  

Then, in the early morning hours of December 27th, 2019 — around 2 or 3 a.m. — a resident came into my room. I could tell by the look on her face that something was different. She said, “Caitlyn, we have a heart for you.”  

I was in disbelief. My mom, aunts, grandma, and sister were at the hotel doing a “shift change”, but when they got the call, they rushed over. We held hands and prayed — not just in gratitude for this miracle, but for the family who had just lost someone. Before I could process it all, my team began preparing me for surgery.  

Around 8 a.m., they wheeled me down the hall. I remember waving goodbye to my family — the last face I saw was my cousin Patrice’s — smiling, trying to be strong for me. That was the last image I had before going under.  

And then — by the grace of God, the skill of my medical team, and the selflessness of a donor family — I woke up with a new heart.  

Chapter 3: After

After surgery came a whole new reality. People often think the transplant is the finish line — but it’s really just the start of another uphill climb.  

Because I’d been on life support and bedridden for so long, my muscles had completely atrophied. I couldn’t walk, sit up, or even move my legs around without help. I had to relearn everything.  

The team at Tufts became like family. I learned how to navigate my new world: how to take my medications, how to protect my immune system, what I could and couldn’t eat, and how to listen to my body in ways I never had before.  

I was discharged on my 26th birthday — January 7th, 2020. We celebrated in my hospital room, my ICU nurses even came up to sing me happy birthday. But just two days later, I was back — this time with the flu. My brand-new immune system was still so fragile. After another week in the hospital, I was discharged. I ended up staying in Boston for two more months with weekly appointments to check for rejection.  

Those weeks were a mix of gratitude and exhaustion. I was thankful to be alive — but I was also drained, physically and emotionally. Sometimes I’d lie awake at night thinking, Why me? What did I do to deserve this kind of suffering?  

It took a long time for me to realize that maybe the question wasn’t “Why me?” but “What now?”  

Chapter 4: Back to Life

In early March 2020, right before the world shut down for COVID, my mom and I finally made it back home to Atlanta. My family and friends welcomed me back with a party, and I got to enjoy the Christmas dinner and my grandma’s cooking, which I had missed so much. I started rebuilding my life slowly — one walk, one step, one day at a time. I went back to law school virtually that fall, then eventually returned to campus in Vermont. Two years later, I walked across the stage at Vermont Law School and graduated in May 2023 with my Juris Doctor and a specialization in Land Use Regulation.  

Today, I hike. I exercise. I laugh with my friends. I make plans for the future. From the outside, my life looks “normal” again — but every beat of my heart is a reminder that I’ve been given a second chance.  

Closing Message: The Takeaway

What this journey taught me is that hope doesn’t always look like light. Sometimes, it’s small. It’s quiet. It’s the tiny voice that says, Keep going, even when you don’t see the way forward. Hope isn’t pretending everything’s fine — it’s choosing to believe there’s more ahead, even when your strength is gone.  

To anyone out there who’s waiting for a transplant, recovering from one, or walking beside someone who is — please hear me when I say this:  

Your story isn’t over. There is life after this. There is laughter after this. And there is a purpose after this. Because sometimes, the second chance you’re praying for doesn’t just give you back your life — it gives you a new one.