💛 Until There’s a Cure — A Mother’s Promise to Her Daughter 💛
There are memories no parent should ever have to hold.
Moments that burn so deeply into the heart that even time can’t soften their edges.
Today, I’m sharing one of those memories — my daughter’s story, in her own words.
Because her voice deserves to be heard.
Because too many children are still asking questions that have no answers.
“Why Me?”
My daughter was nine years old when she first asked that question.
Her voice was small, trembling.
She was sitting on the edge of her hospital bed, her hands folded in her lap, staring at the IV line taped to her arm.
“Mommy, why me?”
I froze.
There are questions a parent should never have to answer — and that one sits at the top of the list.
I remember the way the light fell across her face that morning.
The sterile smell of antiseptic, the rhythmic beeping of the machines.
The world around us felt steady, but inside, everything was breaking.
“I don’t know, sweetheart,” I whispered. “I wish I did.”
She nodded quietly.
She didn’t cry.
She was braver than any adult I’d ever met.
And that’s what made it hurt even more.
“Why Did It Come Back?”
We had believed, for a time, that she was free.
That the worst was behind us.
That the months of radiation, the rounds of chemo, the endless hospital stays had bought her a future — one she could grow into, one filled with laughter and birthdays and sunlight.
But cancer doesn’t play fair.
It comes quietly, cruelly, and without mercy.
When her scans showed the tumor had returned, she was the one who looked at me first.
“Why did it come back?” she asked softly.
And again — I had no answer.
Because there isn’t one.
Not even the doctors, with all their degrees and research, could tell us why.
We did everything right.
She fought with every ounce of strength her small body could summon.
But pediatric cancer doesn’t care how brave you are.
It doesn’t care how much love surrounds you.
It takes — and keeps taking — because we still, after decades, don’t have a cure.
“I Want to Be Free from This.”
There came a day when she couldn’t eat anymore.
Her tiny frame, once full of energy, had grown so fragile that even sitting up was a battle.
She didn’t want toys.
She didn’t want visitors.
She just wanted peace.
She looked at me with those wide, knowing eyes — eyes that had seen far too much for nine years on earth — and said,
“Mommy, I want to be free from this.”
Those words shattered me.
How could a child so young understand suffering so deep?
How could she long for freedom from life when she had barely begun to live it?
But she did.
And as much as it broke me, I knew what she meant.
She wasn’t giving up.
She was just tired of pain.
She was asking for peace.
July 30th, 2024
That was the day God set her free.
The machines went quiet.
The room fell still.
And though I knew she was finally without pain, I have never felt a silence so heavy.
Her absence is everywhere now.
In the chair by the window where she used to read.
In the small handprints still on the glass.
In the smell of her shampoo that lingers on her favorite blanket.
We carry her in everything — in our conversations, our prayers, our grief.
Every morning, I still whisper, “Good morning, baby,” to the sky.
And every night, I look up at the stars and say, “I hope you’re dancing.”
Because she loved to dance.
Even when she was sick, she’d twirl in the hospital hallway, her IV pole rolling beside her like a dance partner.
The nurses used to stop and clap.
That’s the version of her I hold onto — the one who found light in the darkest places.
Fighting for Her
When she died, I thought the fight was over.
But grief taught me something different.
The fight doesn’t end when they’re gone.
It changes.
Now, I fight for her.
For her why.
For her wish that no other child has to go through what she did.
Because her story isn’t unique — and that’s the tragedy.
So many families are still living this same nightmare, facing questions without answers, watching their children slip away while research struggles to keep up.
And now, with budget cuts to cancer research and the NIH ending the Pediatric Brain Tumor Consortium, I feel her words even more deeply.
Her plea — “Why can’t they fix it?” — still echoes in my mind.
And I can’t let it fade.
We owe it to her — and to every child like her — to keep going.
To fight until no parent has to hear those words again.
Her Words Live On
Sharing her words is my way of continuing her fight.
It’s my way of making sure her voice — and the voices of all children like her — aren’t lost in silence.
She once said,
“If I can’t be here, I want you to help the other kids, okay?”
And that’s exactly what I’m trying to do.
Through her foundation, through every dollar donated, through every story told, we are working toward a world where children can dream without fear of a diagnosis.
Where “Why me?” is replaced with “I’m cured.”
That’s what she wanted.
That’s what I want.
And that’s what we all should want — because childhood should be filled with laughter, not hospital walls.
A Call to Action
This isn’t just about my daughter.
It’s about every child still fighting.
Every parent still hoping.
Every researcher trying to find answers before another light goes out.
If you’ve ever wondered how to make a difference, start here.
Help answer her “why.”
Support brain cancer research.
Share her story.
Donate.
Advocate.
Speak her name.
The QR code to her foundation is at the end of the video, and I’ll include the link below.
Every contribution helps fund the research that can save another child’s life.
Because love isn’t passive.
Love acts.
Love fights.
Love refuses to stop.
Until There’s a Cure
I miss her every day — her laughter, her songs, the way she used to say, “I love you bigger than the moon.”
But even in her absence, she continues to move the world.
She was only nine.
Nine years of light.
Nine years of laughter.
Nine years of lessons we’ll carry for a lifetime.
And now, her legacy is hope — hope that one day, no parent will have to hear their child ask,
“Why me?”
or whisper,
“I just want to be free.”
Until that day, we’ll keep fighting.
For her.
For them.
For every child still waiting for a cure.
Because love, real love, never ends.
It just finds new ways to keep going.
Until there’s a cure.
Until no child is left behind.
Until every story ends in healing.