When Heaven Feels Close, and Hope Feels Fragile

From a Mother’s Heart

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?”

I froze.
No one prepares you for that question.

I wanted to say, “He didn’t, baby. He didn’t want this for you.”
But the truth caught in my throat. Because I don’t have all the answers.

So I did what mothers do when words fail — I held her tight.

And I whispered, “God made you strong. And brave. And loved beyond measure.”

She nodded, as if she already knew.
Then she smiled, and for a moment, I saw light — not the kind from the sun, but something deeper, something eternal.

Maybe that’s what faith is.
Not the absence of fear, but the quiet belief that love will carry you through it.

---

Tonight, the house is still.
The monitors hum softly, the nightlight glows against the wall.

Her dad’s arms are wrapped around her — his steady heart keeping rhythm with hers.
And I sit here, writing, because I don’t know what else to do with the ache inside me.

I think about the families who walk this same road — parents sitting by hospital beds, holding tiny hands, praying for one more tomorrow.

We’re strangers, but we share the same heartbeat.
We know the language of fear, the silence of waiting, the weight of hope.

I’ve learned that hope doesn’t always look like healing.
Sometimes it’s smaller, quieter.
It’s her giggle after days of pain.

It’s the moment she whispers “Mommy, I love you” before falling asleep.
It’s the way her dad kisses her forehead every night as if to remind her — and himself — that love still wins.

And in a way, it does.
Because no matter what happens next, love already won.
It’s written in every sleepless night, every whispered prayer, every scar on our hearts that says, “We kept going.”

---

If you saw Brielle today, you’d see a fighter.
She’s fragile, yes, but her spirit burns bright.

When she laughs, the whole room shifts.
She makes nurses smile, doctors soften.
She makes us all remember what matters — not the numbers, not the charts, but the love that fills the spaces in between.

Sometimes I look at her and think,
“How did I get so lucky?”
To be her mom. To be chosen for this impossible, beautiful battle.

And other times, I fall to my knees and whisper,
“Please, God, don’t take her yet.”

Both prayers come from the same heart — a heart stretched thin between heaven and earth.

---

So tonight, I’ll stay here a little longer.
I’ll watch her chest rise and fall.
I’ll memorize the peace on her face and hold on to it for when the pain returns.

And if tomorrow brings another round of hard news, I’ll face it the way I always do —
one breath, one prayer, one heartbeat at a time.

Because that’s what mothers do.
We keep loving, even when it hurts.

We keep believing, even when we’re breaking.
And somehow, through the cracks, light still finds its way in.

From a mother’s heart —
tired, trembling, but still full of love.
Always love.