Prologue

It was April 29, 2020, when my life took an unexpected turn. I found myself in the hospital, a place I had only visited twice before for the deliveries of my daughters. Little did I know that this stay would be unlike anything I had ever experienced. I believed I would go home soon, but that couldn’t have been further from reality. Instead of a wheelchair to the exit door the next day as I had hoped, I traveled by gurney to the intensive care unit. 

The world was in the grip of the COVID-19 pandemic, and hospitals had imposed strict visitor restrictions. Unfortunately, this meant my family couldn’t be by my side during this challenging time. Surrounded by unfamiliar faces, strange smells, and unsettling sounds, I grappled with symptoms that defied reason. Despite being in the best shape of my life, I was struggling to breathe and losing muscle mass faster than I thought possible. 

In my desperation, I pleaded with God to restore the healthy body I had known just weeks earlier. Instead, He answered my pleas with a promise that left me wondering what lay ahead, “No matter what happens, We are with you.” 

Shortly after arriving in the ICU on April 30, the attending physician entered my room and bluntly announced that I needed to be on a ventilator and that there was no time for discussion. However, I was granted a brief phone call to my husband, John. 

Our conversation was quick and to the point. I blurted out the few words I could find, “I’m terrified. I don’t want to do this.” 

“I know, baby, but you have to. It’s the only option you have. I love you so much.” 

Through tears, I choked out my response, “I love you, too.” 

This conversation would be the last I’d have with my husband for several weeks. 

I had been on the ventilator for only a few hours when the doctor encouraged John to call the family, gather our children, and prepare for the worst. 

“Our concern is that she might not make it through the night.” 

As morning broke, relief washed over my family and friends when they learned I had defied the odds and was still clinging to life. I remained in critical condition, but I’m a fighter. Twelve days later, I was life-flighted to a renowned hospital, where I would receive the best care available and ultimately receive the gift of life from an organ donor in the form of two lungs. 

Having accepted Jesus as my Savior at the age of fourteen, I had experienced His guiding presence throughout my Christian journey. His voice was one I easily recognized. And although I knew His familiar voice, I didn’t completely understand what He meant by the reassuring words that He shared with me in the CT scan until months later. However, when I found myself in an unfamiliar hospital with a feeding tube in my nose, a tracheostomy in my neck, various tubes in my torso, and seventy-two staples across my chest, it began to sink in. 

“No matter what happens, We are with you.”

Throughout this grueling journey, His presence was undeniable. In the midst of the storm, I couldn’t help but recognize Him, not only in Spirit but also in the faces of those around me. He had intricately woven together the people and circumstances of my life, preparing me for a battle unlike any other. 

God had led me to develop a deep passion for fitness, unknowingly equipping my body to withstand the demands of a sudden double-lung transplant. The knowledge and education He had allowed me to acquire had instilled in me a zealous desire to maintain optimal health. The athletic drive He nurtured within me provided the determination to persevere as my body recovered from the devastation caused by autoimmune diseases that had ravaged my lungs and muscles.

By His grace, health and fitness ultimately saved my life. I am compelled to share my story to inspire others, to show them that they, too, can conquer seemingly insurmountable challenges if they hold onto faith and refuse to surrender hope.

Now, let me bring you up to speed on the unexpected turn my life took in 2020 and how it changed me forever.

Chapter 1 – Beginnings

My name is Lana Lamkin. At age 50, while in a coma and on life support, I was diagnosed with dermatomyositis, a rare autoimmune disease characterized by muscle weakness primarily in the skeletal muscles, and the presence of a skin rash. But that wasn’t all. I was also diagnosed with an extremely rare antisynthetase syndrome (anti-PL7), which specifically attacks the lungs. The estimated incidence of dermatomyositis is 9.63 cases per million people. And as close as my husband, John, and I can predict, of those 9.63 cases, as few as 5% of myositis patients are also diagnosed with anti-PL7. So, I guess you could say I’m as rare as a unicorn. 

I don’t know how long I’ve had these diseases. But, looking back, I now recognize that their symptoms had manifested throughout my life – fatigued muscles, minor joint pain, inflammation, and recurring rashes. However, since these symptoms never became significant issues and didn’t persist for long, I didn’t give them much thought. But in January 2020, myositis and anti-PL7 began to rear their ugly heads, and they were monsters! 

It all began in mid-January with what I called “the crud.” It was merely a dry cough, and I didn’t feel sick at all–no sniffles, no fever, just a cough. But in February, I started feeling an unusual level of fatigue. By March, my body felt weak and overworked. Despite it all, I continued my daily routine, which included running our business, Snap Fitness Waxhaw. That is until I landed in the hospital in April. 

Before we delve deeper into my story, let me take you back to how I became a gym owner and how it played a significant role in my health crisis. 

If someone had told me six years earlier that I would own a gym, I would have laughed and said, “Not a chance because I don’t like to sweat.” But truth be told, I knew I was far from being at the physical fitness level I should be.  

However, in March 2014, John had major shoulder surgery. His physical therapy included both total immobilization and movement, which was not a simple task. He wasn’t allowed to move his arm alone; he had to rely on his physical therapist and me to keep his shoulder mobile. John and I spent between three to four hours each day doing his assigned exercises. It wasn’t until then that I realized how heavy a human arm could feel. 

During his recovery, John and I came to a mutual realization–we had both allowed our bodies to decline over the years. His desk job required hours of sitting, while I, no longer having an office job, had neglected prioritizing physical activity. 

John and I were both athletes in our younger years. John played several sports, including basketball and football, where he was an outstanding placekicker. But baseball was his true passion. He began playing on a little league team and continued through American Legion. His team won back-to-back state championships, and as a result, he was inducted into his hometown Sports Hall of Fame. 

As for me, in middle school, I made the track team as a sprinter and even secured a position on the basketball team. But unfortunately, I spent most of my basketball career on the bench. Honestly, I still don’t know why the coach allowed me on the team, given my lack of basketball skills. Despite my nearly nonexistent talent in basketball, I discovered I made a pretty good cheerleader from the sidelines. So, in addition to continuing track, I added football and basketball cheerleading to my high school years.

After high school, I landed a job as a gate agent with American Eagle Airlines, which involved a significant amount of walking, which kept me physically active. But the airline industry depleted me emotionally. I spent eighteen months there before the stress from being on the receiving end of passengers’ “trips gone wrong” was more than I could handle. Finally, after an evening laced with death threats from a group of drunk golfers who missed their flight to their beautiful beach destination, I determined I was better suited for office work. So, I transitioned to the agency side of travel and sat down at a desk for the long haul. Eighteen years as a travel agent passed, along with my desire to stay active. 

Even after John and I agreed that I would quit my job to plan our wedding in 2006, I struggled to tap into the athlete within me. With two young daughters, Mackenzie (9) and Lauren (6), from my previous marriage, I wanted to devote all my time to them and John, making it difficult to consider adding a fitness routine to my already busy schedule.

Now, you may be curious how John and I met. Well, it’s quite an interesting story, one that seemed to be orchestrated by God.

It was Valentine’s Day, February 14, 2005. I was still working at a travel agency on the operations team when Wendy, one of our on-site agents, needed a new printer installed in her office. Though I didn’t always tag along with the IT guy on installations, I volunteered to lend a hand this time because her office was near my home in Charlotte. 

Wendy and I had known each other for several years, and she was well aware of my recent separation. She also knew about her single co-worker, John. 

When I say “recent separation,” I mean it had been three weeks since my struggling marriage finally crumbled. My two little girls were still trying to process their parents’ inability to stay together. Needless to say, I wasn’t looking for a date. And I was certainly not interested in another relationship. My life was a bit of a mess, and I was an emotional wreck. However, Wendy was undeterred in her divine mission to play Cupid.

She set up a scenario where John would “accidentally” bump into me while I was in her office. It didn’t cross my mind that Wendy was trying to matchmake. I was too overwhelmed to think clearly. After all, it had only been three weeks! Although John was charming, funny, and handsome, those qualities appeared hazy through the fog in my mind. 

After successfully installing the printer, I wrapped up my time in Wendy’s office and returned to my home office. It was around 4:00 pm when my phone rang.

“Hello, this is Lana. How may I help you?” I answered.

“Hey, girl. Thanks for setting up my new printer today,” Wendy’s voice came through the line.

“Sure. It was nice hanging out with you for a while,” I replied. 

Then, with as much subtlety as she could muster, Wendy revealed her true motive for calling. “So, I talked to John after you left. He was wondering if he were to call you and ask you to go for a motorcycle ride, would you be interested?” 

“What? Are you kidding? Wendy, you know where I am right now,” I exclaimed.  

“I do, but he’s a great guy. It would just be a short ride. No commitment. Come on; you deserve to have a little fun. It would be good for you,” she persisted. 

I could almost envision the mischievous grin on her face as I contemplated her words. It had been ages since I had done something enjoyable. Maybe a motorcycle ride would be a good break for me.

Taking a deep breath, I replied, “Okay. If he calls, I’ll go.” 

“Great! I’ll give him your number.” 

Barely five minutes passed before my phone rang again. I looked down to see the number of the incoming call. It wasn’t one I recognized. Could it be? 

“Hi, this is John; we met earlier today. Wendy gave me your number. I hope you don’t mind me calling,” he said. 

And with that phone call, our relationship began. We made plans for a motorcycle ride and lunch the following weekend. 

When Saturday morning arrived, the weather was chilly–too cold for a motorcycle ride, in my opinion. But I was determined not to back out. Nervous and excited, I rummaged through my closet, trying to decide what to wear. I didn’t have suitable attire for a motorcycle ride in 50-degree weather. What was I even doing? And what if I ended up liking him? What then?

Luckily, Wendy had leathers she offered me to borrow, so we decided to meet at her house. As I heard the sound of John’s pearl-white Harley Davidson approaching, I tried to steady my racing heart. He pulled into Wendy’s driveway, and we said our hellos before strapping on our helmets and hopping on his bike, setting off on our first date. 

During a relaxed lunch, our conversation flowed effortlessly. John made me feel comfortable and secure, even though I had just met him. There was something different about him. However, I couldn’t let my guard down. I hadn’t yet told him about my current, shall we call it, situation. 

“Do you have kids?” he asked. 

“Yes, I have two girls. Mackenzie is nine, and Lauren is six. How about you?” I noticed a hint of concern in his eyes, but we continued our conversation. 

“I have two girls, as well. They’re both grown. Ali is 23. Jessica is 20.” Then came the inevitable question. “Wendy told me you’re separated. How long ago was that?” 

The moment had come for me to drop the bombshell. I knew it would catch him off guard, and I wasn’t sure I was ready to say it aloud. 

After a brief pause, I glanced away slightly and uttered, “Three weeks ago.” 

“Oh,” he responded. 

“I know. It was a tough marriage. It probably wouldn’t have lasted as long as it did if it weren’t for the girls.” 

I assumed this revelation would send him running, but it didn’t. Instead, as our bitterly cold date came to an end, we both felt a heavenly spark that neither of us could explain. We knew it wouldn’t be long before we saw each other again.

John later confirmed that the hint of concern I thought I saw in his eyes on that first date was genuine. He had made a promise to himself not to enter a relationship with someone who had young children. He had raised his kids and was determined not to do it again. But as our relationship progressed, so did his relationship with my girls. He grew to love all three of us, and we loved him in return. 

Fast forward nine years later, we found ourselves lacking the ability to do basic exercises. As John’s shoulder healed, we made a pact to regain our fitness as soon as he was able. And that’s precisely what we did. 

We started by taking walks around our neighborhood. Eventually, I incorporated some jogging into my walks. Gradually, I increased the distance I jogged until I found myself running more than walking. 

During this time, I made two significant discoveries. Firstly, I realized I hadn’t stopped enjoying physical activity; I merely stopped doing it. Secondly, I still despised running long distances. I’m definitely more of a sprinter. I preferred short bursts of intense effort. So, due to my lack of enthusiasm for running farther than a few yards, I decided to leave 5Ks and marathons to those who actually enjoyed them. 

Once I acknowledged that long-distance running wasn’t my forte, I set out to find an exercise regimen that I genuinely enjoyed and could commit to long-term. That’s when I stumbled upon shorter, high-intensity workouts and quickly fell in love. Weightlifting, burpees, push-ups, and jumping became part of my daily routine. After years of searching, I had finally discovered my passion, and high-intensity interval training became my signature workout style.

As the Lord grew my enthusiasm for exercise, I began sharing with others about how great it was to be fit again. It felt like the natural progression to become a personal trainer. I was on fire, eager to teach others how to improve their well-being and relish the journey.

In April 2016, I earned my personal training certification, then I completed my health coach certification in 2017, and became a nutrition coach and corrective exercise specialist along the way. These achievements paved the way for what was to come—buying our own gym, a culmination of my passion and dedication to helping others achieve their fitness goals.