It wasn’t when we got the diagnosis.
It wasn’t when the doctors explained the plan.
It wasn’t even when people told me, “She’s strong.”
It was a quiet moment.
Nothing dramatic. No big announcement. No clear finish line.
Just me, sitting beside her hospital bed. Watching her sleep. Machines still humming. Wires still attached. Our life still uncertain.
And she was peaceful.
After everything her tiny body had been through… she was still here. Still fighting. Still resting like she trusted the world around her.
And something inside me shifted.
For weeks, I had been holding my breath. Living moment to moment. Afraid to look too far ahead. Afraid to hope too much.
But in that moment, I realized something.
We weren’t just surviving the hard days.
We were learning how to live inside them.
I realized that strength doesn’t always look like certainty. Sometimes it looks like showing up again the next morning. Asking another question. Holding their hand one more time.
I realized that fear and hope can exist in the same space.
And I realized… we were going to survive this.
Not because it was easy.
Not because it wasn’t terrifying.
But because she was stronger than I ever imagined.
And somehow, I was too.
We didn’t know what the future held.
But for the first time, I believed we would be there to see it. 🤍