Brielle is asleep with her dad.
And I’m sitting here, hands trembling, wondering how much more my heart can take.
I’m not a doctor.
Just a mother — trying to save her child with love, faith, and whatever strength I have left.
Two weeks ago, her pain came back — sharp, relentless, cruel.
We raised the meds, whispered prayers through tears, held her as she cried.
There is nothing more devastating than hearing your baby say,“Mommy, it hurts.”
For four days, I stopped everything.
No laundry, no dishes, no calls. The world outside our door could have ended, and I wouldn’t have noticed.
My whole life became the sound of her breathing — shallow, uneven — and the rhythm of her tiny fingers wrapped around mine.
I watched her sleep, counting the seconds between each sigh.
I memorized her eyelashes, the soft curls at her temple, the way she whispered in her dreams.
It’s strange how, when you’re living in the middle of a storm, the smallest moments become your lifeline.
Sometimes she wakes up smiling.
And for a heartbeat, everything feels normal again.
She asks for pancakes, wants to watch her favorite cartoon, laughs at something her dad says.
And I almost believe we’re just an ordinary family, living an ordinary day.
But then, the pain returns — sudden and fierce, like lightning through her little body.
And we’re back in the fight.
Back to the monitors, the syringes, the whispered prayers.Back to holding her through the tears, counting the minutes until the meds take hold.
People tell me I’m strong.
But the truth is, I’m not.
I break every single day — sometimes quietly, sometimes loud enough that God Himself must cover His ears.
I cry in the shower so she won’t see. I scream into towels.
And then I wipe my face, put on a smile, and go back to being “Mommy.”
Because she needs me to be brave. Even when I’m not.
There’s a photo on my nightstand — Brielle at three years old, covered in flour, helping me bake cookies.
Her cheeks were round, her laughter wild and free.That was before the diagnosis. Before hospital rooms became our second home. Before I learned to read her bloodwork like a second language.
Sometimes I stare at that photo and whisper to it:“I miss you.”
But then I realize she’s still here — different, yes, but still the same soul.
Still my baby.
People ask how we do it — how we survive the endless nights, the uncertainty, the fear.I don’t have an answer.
You just… do.
You love, you hope, you fall apart, you pray — and somehow, you keep breathing.
I’ve learned that love isn’t just soft.It’s fierce.
It’s the kind of love that stays awake through the night, counting each breath.
The kind that learns medical terms you never wanted to know.
The kind that fights insurance calls, battles exhaustion, and still finds the strength to sing lullabies at 3 a.m.
Yesterday, while I was changing her bandage, she looked up at me and asked,
“Mommy, why did God make me sick?”
