Mike Fisher noticed it first—the way Carrie Underwood would sometimes pause mid-sentence, as if searching for a word that had slipped away. The way her hands, usually so steady on the guitar, now hesitated. Small things. Easy to dismiss. But Mike knew her. And when she laughed off his concern with a “I’m just tired, babe,” his gut told him it was more.

He insisted on a doctor. Then a specialist. Then another.

The diagnosis wasn’t dramatic—no tumor, no sudden collapse—just a quiet, stubborn aftermath of her past falls: nerve damage, subtle but real. A legacy of years spent giving everything to the stage. The doctor’s words hung in the air: “It may improve… or it may not.”

Carrie sat frozen, staring at her hands—the hands that wrote hits, cradled her children, clung to Mike in the dark. What if they never quite obeyed her again?

Then Mike knelt in front of her, his calloused hockey player’s palms framing her face. “Listen to me,” he said, voice rough with conviction. “You’re still Carrie freakin’ Underwood. And if you gotta relearn how to play ‘Before He Cheats’ left-handed, we’ll do it. Every damn day.”

No pity. No panic. Just we.

And in that moment, Carrie realized:
Her body might have betrayed her.

But love?

Love would always keep time.