When my daughter, Aya Sofya, looks up at me with her big brown eyes and quietly asks, “Mama, will I ever run again?” I always smile. I tell her yes. I tell her she will. Because a mother’s smile is sometimes the only shield a child has against fear. But inside, my heart breaks a little more every time she asks.
Aya will turn five this November. She is bold, cheeky, and overflowing with warmth. She is the kind of child who pours imaginary tea from her toy kitchen and insists you drink every drop. She giggles in a way that fills the room with light. She wraps her tiny arms around you when you are sad, as if she knows exactly how to heal a broken heart.
She is full of life.
And yet, right now, her childhood is on pause.
Most days, Aya sits on the couch with her leg immobilized in a splint. Even the smallest movement brings pain. Her pink bicycle—once a symbol of freedom, laughter, and endless afternoons of play—now sits untouched in the corner. She watches other children run, laugh, and chase each other outside. Sometimes she is quiet. Sometimes she asks softly:
“Will I ever do that again?”
No parent should ever have to watch their child’s dreams shrink to a single, heartbreaking question.
The Diagnosis That Changed Everything
Aya was just two years old when our world shattered. What began as worry and hospital visits turned into words that still echo in our minds:
High-risk Stage 3 neuroblastoma.
A rare and aggressive childhood cancer.
From that moment on, our lives became a blur of hospital corridors, medical charts, and prayers whispered in the dark. What followed was a journey no child—and no parent—should ever have to endure.
Aya went through:
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12 cycles of chemotherapy, leaving her tiny body weak, bald, and exhausted.
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A major tumor removal surgery, filled with fear, pain, and uncertainty.
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A stem cell transplant, a complex and dangerous procedure to rebuild her fragile body.
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14 rounds of radiotherapy, targeting cancer cells relentlessly.
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5 cycles of immunotherapy, our final line of defense.
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3 emergency surgeries for life-threatening complications.
We almost lost her.
After her very first chemotherapy session, her tumor ruptured. Aya was rushed into intensive care. For 21 long days, she lay intubated and unresponsive. Machines breathed for her. Alarms became the soundtrack of our lives. We held her tiny hand, whispered prayers, and begged for miracles.
Every minute felt like a lifetime.
But Aya fought.
Against odds that no two-year-old should ever face, she came back. Slowly. Painfully. But triumphantly. Our little girl showed a strength that left doctors amazed and parents in tears.
A Brief Return to Childhood
For nine precious months, we heard a word that felt like sunlight after a storm:
Remission.
For the first time in years, Aya could draw rainbows without feeling sick. She danced in the living room, spinning until she was dizzy with laughter. She played, she dreamed, she lived.
For the first time, we allowed ourselves to hope.
We believed the worst was behind us.
We were wrong.
The Relapse That Shattered Our Hearts
In June, during Hari Raya Aidiladha, Aya began to fall.
At first, it was just a limp. Then she struggled to walk straight. Then she cried in pain. We rushed her to the emergency department, and from there, straight back to oncology.
When the oncologist walked in, I already knew. A mother’s heart knows before words are spoken.
Relapsed neuroblastoma.
Not only had the cancer returned—it had spread to Aya’s bones. It caused a pathological fracture in her leg. That is why she now lives in a splint. That is why she needs daily painkillers just to move. That is why even sitting up can make her cry.
Three words entered our lives and changed everything:
Cancer. Relapse. Palliative.
Three words no parent should ever hear.
Three words that crushed every ounce of hope we were holding onto.
Here in our home country, we were told that all standard treatment options had been exhausted.
It felt like being told there was no road left to walk.
A Final Ray of Hope
But parents do not give up. Not when their child is still breathing. Not when their child is still smiling. Not when their child still dreams of running.
We searched. We begged. We applied. We wrote emails. We made phone calls. We refused to accept that this was the end of the road.
After months of relentless searching, a hospital abroad offered one final hope:
CAR-T cell therapy.
An advanced, cutting-edge treatment with the potential to save Aya’s life.
Aya has been accepted for this therapy.
But hope comes with a heartbreaking cost.
The total treatment is SGD $170,000, with a critical deposit of SGD $23,000 due by 24 September. Because the total amount is so large, we must raise the funds in stages. Our first target is SGD $50,000, which will allow Aya to begin treatment without delay and keep her care moving forward.
Every stage matters. Every delay risks losing precious time.
Time Is Not on Our Side
In just a few weeks, Aya has gone from limping on her own to being confined to a splint. She now scoots around on her pink swivel stool, unable to bear weight on her leg.
Her cancer is spreading.
She is currently on palliative oral chemotherapy, which only helps manage pain—it does not cure her.
Her other limbs are beginning to hurt. Nights are filled with whimpers, restless tossing, and quiet tears. Sometimes she wakes up and calls for me. Sometimes she just holds my hand and squeezes, as if to say, “Don’t leave.”
And yet—Aya still smiles.
She still draws cupcakes and princesses.
She still colors rainbows.
She still talks about running again.
Every single day, she teaches us what courage looks like.
She has already survived more than most children endure in a lifetime. And we believe—with every fiber of our being—that if given this chance, she can survive again.
Why We Are Asking for Your Help
Aya’s fight is not just about survival.
It is about childhood.
It is about laughter without pain.
It is about playgrounds, scraped knees, and bedtime stories.
It is about giving her the chance to be five—not a patient, not a statistic, not a diagnosis.
We have done everything we can. We have drained our savings. We have reached out to family and friends. We have given everything we have.
But we cannot do this alone.
Without your help, Aya’s treatment may be delayed—or worse, may never begin.
Every donation, no matter how small, brings her closer to:
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Walking again
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Laughing without pain
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Simply being a child
A Plea From Our Hearts
We are asking you—kind donors, compassionate strangers, and friends—to stand with us.
We are raising SGD $170,000 to begin Aya’s life-saving CAR-T cell therapy.
Her first deposit of SGD $23,000 is due by 24 September.
Your support is more than money.
It is hope.
It is time.
It is life.
Every cent will be managed by Give.Asia and paid directly to the Children Cancer Association Malaysia (CCAM). 100% of the funds go to Aya’s treatment.
Aya’s Dream
If Aya could speak for herself, she would say:
“I want to run. I want to play. I want to go back to being a little girl. Please help me.”
And we, as her parents, echo that plea.
Aya has already shown the world what true strength looks like.
She is still fighting.
She is not ready to give up.
Neither are we.
Please, help our little girl find her second chance.
Your support is hope.
And for Aya, hope is everything.
With deepest gratitude,
Aya Sofya’s Parents