The Inspiration Behind Until You

A few years ago, my mom and stepdad came to spend Christmas with us.

My mom has asthma, and while I’ve known that for many years, I don’t usually see what it looks like in her everyday life. She lives up north, and even though we talk on the phone almost every day, hearing about something and standing there while it happens are two very different things.

One afternoon, we all went swimming at a local pool. It was ordinary in the way family afternoons can be—wet towels, kids, chatter, the echo of voices bouncing off the walls.

Then my mom stepped out of the water and reached for her towel. And suddenly, everything changed.

She started coughing. Then wheezing. Her face flushed red, and in a matter of seconds, the air around us seemed to shift. One moment we were having a normal day. The next, I was watching my mom struggle to breathe.

I remember feeling completely helpless.

But my stepdad didn’t hesitate. He’s a former paramedic, and before the lifeguards even reached her, he was already there—calm, steady, focused. He supported her so she wouldn’t collapse, got her inhaler, and helped her use it. By the time the lifeguards arrived, he had already gotten her breathing again.

That day, the pool happened to be hosting a lifeguard training session, so within moments there were at least a dozen lifeguards surrounding her, ready to step in and call 911. Because my stepdad had stabilized her and she was breathing, my mom declined the ambulance.

The lifeguards still stayed with her. They hooked her up to oxygen for a while and watched her closely until they were sure she was okay.

She recovered.

But I don’t think I ever fully forgot the feeling of that moment.

Not the fear, exactly—though I remember that too. What stayed with me was watching my stepdad love her. Not with a speech. Not with a grand romantic gesture. Not in any way that would make a scene in a movie. Just by being there. By knowing what to do. By becoming calm when everything else felt terrifying.

It was one of the first times I really understood that love isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s quiet. Practical. Steady. Sometimes love looks like knowing where the inhaler is. Like holding someone upright. Like staying composed because the person you love needs you to be.

That moment found its way into my story.

In the book, Sadie has asthma. Axel smokes. At first, that might seem like a small detail—but it isn’t. It becomes a source of tension, risk, and care. It becomes one of those places where love asks something uncomfortable of a person. Because real love often does.

Sadie Munne lives by one rule: survive without letting anyone close enough to hurt her again. After a painful past, she has built a life that feels safe—careful, controlled, protected.

Then Axel moves in next door. He’s reckless. Magnetic. The kind of man who doesn’t believe in attachment. And somehow, despite every wall Sadie has built, he sees her.

What grows between them isn’t simple. It’s messy and tender and complicated by fear, vulnerability, and the very real possibility that they could break each other.

As their walls begin to crack, they’re forced to confront not only the pasts they’ve tried to outrun, but the terrifying possibility of being fully known.

And the question at the heart of it all: Is love worth the risk of falling apart… or is it the only thing that can finally put them back together?

If this kind of story resonates with you, you can find it on Amazon here.