SG. This isn’t just the start of a new year — it’s a milestone this family once feared they might never see.

When the calendar turned and a new year began, it carried a meaning far deeper for the Cummins family than fireworks or resolutions. It marked something they once barely dared to hope for — more time. More moments. More tomorrows with their son, Landry.

From his very first breath, Landry Cummins was fighting for his life.

Born with a rare and devastating condition known as congenital hyperinsulinism, Landry’s tiny pancreas produced overwhelming amounts of insulin, flooding his fragile body and sending his blood sugar crashing to dangerously low, life-threatening levels. For most newborns, those first hours are filled with warm blankets, quiet lullabies, and tearful smiles from exhausted parents. For Landry, they were filled with urgency.

Monitors beeped relentlessly. Nurses moved swiftly. Doctors spoke in careful, measured tones.

Instead of peaceful cuddles, Landry’s earliest days were marked by IV lines taped to delicate skin, constant heel pricks to check glucose levels, and medications administered around the clock in a desperate attempt to stabilize him. His parents quickly learned to read the rhythm of hospital alarms — each sound capable of sending their hearts into panic.

Low blood sugar in newborns can cause seizures, brain injury, or worse. For Landry, the threat was constant. Even with aggressive medical management, his glucose levels remained unpredictable. Every small dip was dangerous. Every hour stable felt like borrowed time.

His parents lived suspended between hope and fear.

They memorized medical terminology they never expected to know. They watched numbers on screens more closely than they watched the clock. They celebrated small victories — a stable reading, a quiet hour, a brief moment when Landry could simply sleep without interruption.

But despite the medications and continuous monitoring, it became painfully clear that conventional treatments were not enough.

Then came the conversation no parent is ever prepared to have.

Doctors explained that Landry’s condition was severe and unresponsive to standard therapies. The only remaining option — the one that carried both immense risk and fragile hope — was a near-total pancreatectomy. Surgeons would need to remove 99% of his pancreas in order to stop the dangerous insulin overproduction.

It was an extraordinary and daunting procedure. Removing nearly all of the pancreas could save his brain and his life — but it also came with lifelong implications. There were risks of surgical complications, diabetes, and an uncertain road ahead.

Everything was on the line.

For Landry’s parents, the decision felt impossible. Yet doing nothing was not an option. Each passing day without a solution placed their son at risk of irreversible harm. So, with trembling hands and steadfast love, they chose to give him the chance.

The day of surgery stretched endlessly. Hours passed in waiting rooms filled with silent prayers and fragile hope. When the surgeon finally emerged, the news they had been longing for came gently but clearly: the procedure was successful.

Recovery was not instant. There were still tubes, medications, and cautious monitoring. But slowly — almost unbelievably — the numbers began to steady. The dangerous plunges in blood sugar that once defined Landry’s days became less frequent. Then rarer still.

And now, as a new year unfolds, Landry is stable.

He is alert. He is growing. He is eating on his own — without the emergency medications that once kept him alive hour by hour. The constant alarms that once dominated his world have quieted. The fear that once lived in every breath has softened into something else: cautious hope.

His parents still carry the weight of what they’ve been through. They know the journey isn’t over. A life after near-total pancreas removal requires careful management and long-term follow-up. There will be appointments, tests, and watchful eyes on his health for years to come.

But for the first time, they are allowing themselves to look forward.

They are dreaming about birthdays. About first steps. About school days and scraped knees and all the ordinary milestones that once felt impossibly distant. They are learning how to celebrate not just survival, but stability.

This new year is not simply a date on a calendar. It is a symbol of resilience — of a tiny boy who fought from his very first breath, and of parents who stood unwavering at his side through every terrifying decision.

It is proof that even in the most fragile beginnings, strength can take root.

For the Cummins family, this year does not begin with resolutions.

It begins with gratitude.

And with a future they once feared they might never see.