Some moments divide life into a clear before and after. For Libby and her family, that moment came quietly, unexpectedly, on what should have been a joyful Good Friday during Easter weekend in 2022.
Eleven-year-old Libby and her mother, Michelle, were doing something beautifully ordinary—laughing, shopping, sharing a mother-daughter day at the mall in Glen Carbon, Illinois. Then Michelle’s phone rang. It was a call no parent is ever prepared to answer. Libby’s endocrinologist was on the line, and with a few carefully chosen words, the world shifted: Libby had a brain tumor.
Until that moment, Libby’s life had been full of motion and joy. Soccer wasn’t just a hobby—it was her heartbeat. Practices, weekend games, teammates who felt like family. She was doing well in school, surrounded by friends, moving through childhood with confidence and curiosity. The only concern had been her slow growth over the previous two years, something Michelle and Libby’s pediatrician had monitored carefully. By late 2021, that concern led to more testing—and eventually, an MRI that revealed the truth no one wanted to face.
Michelle, a nurse with over two decades of experience in pediatric intensive care, had spent her career standing beside families in their darkest moments. She had seen trauma, loss, and fear up close. But nothing prepared her for hearing those words spoken about her own child. Professional strength dissolved into raw humanity. In a dressing room at the mall, she cried—not as a nurse, but as a mother whose heart was breaking.
Libby remembers that moment vividly. She saw her mom’s tears before she fully understood the reason for them. When Michelle told her she had a tumor and that they needed to go back to the hospital, fear crept in—but so did trust. Libby didn’t yet grasp what a tumor meant. What she did know was that her mom worked at the hospital, and to an eleven-year-old, that meant safety. If Mom was there, everything would somehow be okay.
At work, Libby’s father, Brad, received the news and did what many parents do when faced with medical uncertainty—he searched for answers online. What he found only deepened the fear. Worst-case scenarios filled the screen, and the days leading up to meeting with specialists felt endless. It was a time marked by helplessness, questions, and long nights of quiet worry.
Within a week, the family was immersed in medical appointments. Specialists. Scans. New words that suddenly carried enormous weight. The tumor was suspected to be a craniopharyngioma, a rare growth near the pituitary gland—small in size, about as big as a cherry, yet capable of disrupting growth, hormones, and vision. A fluid-filled cyst hovered above it, adding to the complexity. Everything felt overwhelming, especially for a child trying to understand her own body turning unfamiliar.
While doctors discussed plans and possibilities, Libby sat with a nurse who stayed by her side, offering calm presence when the language became too confusing. Later that night, curiosity and fear led Libby to search the diagnosis herself. It wasn’t comforting—but it made the situation real. Sometimes understanding, even when it hurts, brings a strange sense of control.
Through it all, Libby’s parents fought fiercely to protect her childhood. When doctors confirmed that a long-planned Disney trip could still happen, they said yes without hesitation. That trip became a pocket of light—a final stretch of normalcy before surgery. Libby finished school. She laughed. She made memories. In a journey filled with uncertainty, those moments became priceless.
Surgery was scheduled for May 27, 2022. The approach was complex and delicate—accessing the tumor through the nasal passage to reach the base of the brain. It required immense precision and trust. When the surgery was over, the news was hopeful: the entire tumor had been removed.
Recovery, however, was its own battle. Libby spent days in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit, connected to drains and monitors, learning how still she had to be. No sneezing. No blowing her nose. Endless hours in bed. Frequent needle pokes. The physical discomfort was real, but so was the emotional strain.
What helped, unexpectedly, were moments of kindness and connection. Child Life specialists brought comfort. A therapy dog named Thor padded into her room, offering silent reassurance. His presence softened the hardest days. When Libby received a stuffed version of Thor to keep, it became more than a toy—it became a symbol of comfort, resilience, and the people who cared for her when she felt most vulnerable.
Libby’s strength astonished her parents. Brad, who struggled watching medical procedures, saw his daughter face them with quiet courage. Michelle, despite all her clinical experience, was humbled by Libby’s resilience. In those hospital rooms, it was often the child who seemed strongest.
Libby went home on June 8, 2022, carrying not just scars, but a new reality. With her pituitary stalk removed, her body could no longer regulate essential hormones on its own. Daily medications became a lifelong necessity. Follow-up appointments became routine. Life moved forward—but it looked very different.
The emotional impact surfaced most deeply when Libby started middle school. New environment. Shifting friendships. A body that no longer felt familiar. The pressure overwhelmed her. Anxiety crept in quietly, followed by depression. At her lowest point, Libby stopped taking her medication—not out of defiance, but exhaustion. She didn’t want attention. She didn’t want to explain. She wanted to disappear.
Michelle noticed. And she acted. With careful evaluation, adjustments to medication, and consistent psychological support, Libby slowly found her footing again. Healing, they learned, wasn’t just physical—it was emotional, mental, deeply human.
Today, Libby is rediscovering herself. Soccer is no longer part of her life, but art, music, and creativity have taken its place. She’s learning that it’s okay to change. That it’s okay to grieve who you were while embracing who you are becoming.
Now undergoing growth hormone therapy, Libby looks to the future with cautious hope. Two inches taller already, she smiles at the possibility of what’s still ahead—not just in height, but in life.
Her journey is not over. But it is powerful.
Libby’s story is one of fear transformed into strength, of family standing firm in the storm, and of a young girl who learned—far too early—that resilience doesn’t mean never breaking. It means learning how to rise again, supported by love, courage, and the quiet belief that even after the darkest days, light can return.