Every parent remembers the day their world fractured. For our family, that day was April 29, 2024. For weeks, we thought our 3½ year old daughter, Aaliya, was dealing with severe growing pains or anemia. But when a week passed where she completely lost the ability to walk, accompanied by raging fevers and mysterious black and blue marks, we knew it was something more. I remember the sheer panic of that time, the heavy weight of knowing something was terribly wrong. I called my dad, describing her symptoms, and he gave me the directive that changed everything: “Take her to the ER right now.”
The moment the hospital staff saw that Aaliya couldn’t walk and heard what she was experiencing, they rushed us back to a room. They drew her blood, looked at her cells, and instantly knew it was leukemia. The exact type was confirmed the next day: acute lymphoblastic leukemia (ALL). In an instant, our innocent toddler was thrust into a world of high-risk protocols, intense frontline treatments, and spinal lumbar punctures. Because of a specific gene that made her highly sensitive to one of the chemotherapies, Aaliya had to be monitored much more closely than most. Her frontline treatment stretched to a grueling 19 months, and she spent well over 100 days living inside the hospital walls. Because she was high risk, her chemo doses were incredibly strong, leaving her profoundly neutropenic and vulnerable for long stretches of time.
Life became deeply isolating. With our extended family living in other parts of the country and the world, it was just my husband and me navigating a medical storm alone. And then, just four months into Aaliya’s diagnosis, the unimaginable happened. My mother, Aaliya’s grandmother, who had been staying with us to help and who sat by my side in the hospital almost every single day, was diagnosed with glioblastoma. Carrying back-to-back terminal diagnoses for both my child and my mother was a traumatic weight that felt too heavy for one lifetime.
Yet, looking at Aaliya, we found the strength to keep breathing.
Cancer stripped away so much of her early childhood. She missed out on the simple, carefree days that every toddler deserves. Instead of playgrounds, she lived in a world of constant pokes and weekly port accesses. There were moments so cruel that she couldn't even speak because the chemo caused severe thrush, turning her tongue entirely white and forcing her to rely on heavy painkillers just to get through the day.
But if you ask me what cancer has taught us, it is that children are our greatest teachers.
While living inside hospital walls, Aaliya taught us about pure resilience. Half of her life has been hospital life, and because it is what she knows, she has met it with a grace that defies her age. Instead of letting the trauma harden her, she continues to dance through the halls. She forms deep, beautiful bonds with her medical team, the doctors, nurses, and child life experts who have become her extended family. Every time we walk through those doors, her face lights up with excitement to see them.
Aaliya remains the kindest, purest soul I have ever known. Through it all, she speaks often of her grandmother. She knows deeply that her grandmother is right by her side, protecting her through every single procedure. Hearing her talk about that connection is one of the most beautiful gifts we’ve been given.
And amidst the darkness of treatment, we were given another miracle: a baby sister, who is now 10 months old. She has been a literal beacon of joy, a reminder of new life and hope when we needed it most.
We are now two years into this diagnosis. Aaliya is almost 6 years old, and in just five months, she will finally ring that bell. She has endured things that would break most adults, yet she has maintained her joy. She has taught us that even when you are confined to a hospital room, even when you are being poked and prodded, you can still choose to be kind. You can still choose to love. You can still choose to dance.
Kelly
Family member and caregiver
