This year, my ask for the American Heart Association comes with a little more weight than usual.

At the end of January, my brother underwent open heart surgery at just 41 years old. He needed to repair a mitral valve prolapse––the very same condition our mother faced when she was 47. Watching him go through what we thought was a “once-in-a-generation” family ordeal was sobering in a way I can’t fully put into words. It reminded us that heart disease doesn’t always look like what people expect.

Our family’s story with the American Heart Association is a bit atypical. We don’t have heart disease caused by poor diet, inactivity, or lifestyle choices. Ours is hereditary. Quiet. Invisible. And unless you’re looking for it, easy to miss—until suddenly, you can’t.

Twenty years ago, my mother’s journey began unexpectedly on a winter weekend when she became short of breath after a swim. Within hours, she was in atrial fibrillation, surrounded by monitors and machines, and our world shifted. Months later, she faced the impossible decision to undergo open heart surgery. There were complications. There were moments when we were told, far too late, that things were going wrong. But she survived. And then she survived again—through years of recovery, lifelong blood thinners, vertigo, and even spontaneous brain bleeds that landed her back in the hospital more than a decade later, and a mild heart attack last June.

She is here today because of research. Because of early detection. Because of advances in cardiac care. Because organizations like the American Heart Association exist.

Now, watching my brother face the same diagnosis, decades earlier than most would ever think to check, has reinforced what we’ve learned the hard way: prevention and awareness save lives, especially when genetics are involved. You can’t manage what you don’t know to look for. You can’t advocate for yourself without information.

I’ve been volunteering and raising funds for the American Heart Association for 20 years now, and my commitment won’t waver. Not for my mother. Not for my brother. Not for the countless families whose stories are still unfolding.

If you’re able to give, please know that your support goes far beyond a donation. It fuels research, education, early detection, and hope—for families like mine, and for those who don’t yet know they’ll need it.

Every penny truly counts.