Jessica Woodville | Memoir & Musings

One night,

she drifted off —

a child spun from stardust and backyard laughter,

dreaming of bigger bikes, summer rains,

and birthday candles burning too fast.

One night,

the world was still simple.

And then —

somewhere between one breath and the next —

the earth shifted.

She woke up

and the world was heavier,

her small hands forced to hold things

children shouldn’t have to carry.

A name, a diagnosis,

etched into the marrow of her morning.

Forever.

A word that shouldn’t belong to eleven-year-olds.

There is a kind of innocence

you don’t realize you’re losing

until it’s gone.

But oh, my fierce girl —

you are not lost.

Your light —

the one that bursts from you

in fits of unstoppable laughter,

the one that set fire to our quiet hearts

the first time you ever laughed out loud —

that light is made of sterner stuff

than any illness could dim.

I pray you keep laughing, Sophia,

deep from your soul,

louder than the fear,

brighter than the weight.

I pray you keep building a life

bigger than any label they will try to hand you.

You are not your diagnosis.

You are not a statistic.

You are not a prognosis written in tired ink.

You are every giggle,

every skipped heartbeat of joy,

every star stubborn enough to stay shining

even after the night grew thick.

And we —

we will keep listening for your laughter,

the music that made us believe in miracles

the very first time.