The pain came back tonight — sharp, merciless, the kind that steals the air from a room and turns a mother’s heartbeat into thunder.
I held her tiny body against my chest, rocking her in the shadows, whispering prayers I’ve repeated a thousand times:
Please let the medicine work… please let her stop hurting… please, God, please.
Nothing breaks you like hearing your child cry,
“Mommy, it hurts.” 💔There are no words strong enough to describe that kind of helplessness — the way it slices through your spirit, leaving pieces you quietly gather when no one is watching.
Some mornings, though, feel like miracles wrapped in sunlight.
She wakes with a smile, asks for pancakes, twirls around the kitchen floor, and giggles in her father’s arms.
And for a few fragile minutes, we look like any normal family…
whole, happy, untouched by fear.
But then the pain returns — suddenly, brutally —
and the illusion shatters.Reality pulls us back into the fight we never asked to fight.
A fight she never deserved.
People tell me I’m strong.
But the truth?
I break a little every single day.
I cry in bathrooms, in cars, behind half-closed doors — anywhere she can’t see me fall apart.
Then I wipe my face, breathe, and walk back to her with a smile,
because she needs courage I don’t always feel.
Yesterday she looked up with those soft, searching eyes and asked,
“Why did God make me sick?”
I pressed my lips to her forehead, fighting tears, and whispered,
“Because He made you brave, baby…Braver than you know.”
And maybe that’s what faith is —
not the absence of fear,
but trusting that love, somehow, will be enough to carry us through the darkness.
Tonight, she sleeps in her father’s arms — calm, peaceful, untouched by pain.
Her breaths are small miracles.
Her heartbeat, a quiet hymn of survival.
And I sit beside them, hands clasped, soul trembling, whispering the only prayer I have left:
Just one more tomorrow.
One more smile.
One more sunrise.
One breath,
one prayer,
one heartbeat at a time. 🕊️💛