They said never. They said it so many times that at some point, I began to wonder if those words were meant to become truth — a fate written in stone, unchangeable, unavoidable. “Never walk.” “Never eat by mouth.” “Never reach the milestones other children do.” It felt as though the world had already decided your story before you even had the chance to begin it. But tonight, as I sit here overwhelmed with emotion, scrolling through photos and memories, it dawns on me that you — and only you — wrote your own story. You turned every “never” into an echo that faded behind you.
From the very first moment we learned of your struggles, hope felt fragile — like a single candle flickering in a storm. I remember the sinking feeling when doctors first spoke to us with guarded eyes and solemn voices. I remember how the words hit us, crashing into our hearts like thunder: You might not survive. At the time, it felt as if the darkness was so thick that hope itself was impossible. We were shaken — not just in body, but deep in spirit — grasping for anything that felt like light.
Each day began in an antiseptic hospital room with the beeping of machines and ended the same way. There were endless tubes, procedures, medications, and unfamiliar faces wearing masks of professional compassion. There were nights when every breath you took felt like an answer to prayers we were barely brave enough to voice. There were mornings when your first tiny movement felt nothing less than miraculous. In those hours, we learned that hope is not something that arrives fully formed — hope is built on moments, pieced together by love and perseverance.
They said you might never eat or drink by mouth — that the simple, human act of nourishment might be something you never experience. For so many parents, this would have been an unbearable truth. But you surprised us all. You fought with courage that defied logic. Slowly, gently — at times frustratingly painfully slow — you learned to eat. Your first feeding by mouth was nothing short of a miracle. I can still see the relief in the nurses’ eyes, the unspoken joy that radiated from their smiles. That moment wasn’t just about food. It was about your will to live. Your fierce belief that life was worth every struggle.
I think of the first time you moved your tiny fingers with intention — not just reflex, but purposeful motion. I think of the first smile that lit up your face and told us, without words, that you were present — fully here, fully aware. Those victories were not small. They were lifelines we clutched when fear threatened to overwhelm us.
We were told you would never crawl. You showed us that even the smallest body can carry a gigantic heart. When you began to crawl, it wasn’t just a physical achievement — it was a proclamation: I am here. I am strong. I refuse to be defined by what I was told I couldn’t do. And when you took your first tentative steps — wobbly, cautious, yet determined — it felt like the world itself applauded. You didn’t just walk — you walked with intention. You walked with purpose. You walked into a life that once seemed out of reach.
Every milestone became more than a checkpoint. It became a testament to what happens when faith, love, and resilience refuse to surrender. You taught all of us that strength isn’t measured by size or circumstance, but by the courage to try again — even when the world says “never.”
Almost two years have passed since those first uncertain days. And now, as your second birthday approaches, I find myself overwhelmed with gratitude. Gratitude for the doctors who never stopped caring. Gratitude for the nurses who celebrated each tiny victory with us. Gratitude for every prayer whispered in the dark hours of doubt. But most of all, gratitude for you — for your spirit, your courage, and your undeniable will to live.
You have not just survived — you have thrived. You approach the world with curiosity, joy, and laughter that is infectious. You take each day as it comes, exploring life with wonder and boldness. And with every laugh, every intentional movement, every playful interaction, you remind us that the impossible is not a sentence — it is a challenge.
There were nights filled with fear — nights when every heartbeat was a prayer. There were days spent in sterile rooms, where hope had to be summoned again and again. But through every setback and every triumph, you taught us what it truly means to believe. You taught us that love is the most powerful medicine of all — more potent than fear, more enduring than doubt.
People often think that miracles are rare — something that happens only in stories. But every day with you has shown us that miracles walk, play, eat, and laugh. Miracles are not just sudden and spectacular — they can be quiet, persistent, daily triumphs of will and spirit.
Doctors once said you might never walk; now you’re discovering the world on your own two feet. They said you might never eat by mouth; now you savor the joy of food like every other child. They said you might never reach your milestones — but you defied them all. And in doing so, you reminded everyone around you that diagnoses are not destiny, limitations are not final, and the human spirit can rise beyond expectation.
As I reflect on your journey, I see a tapestry woven from pain and joy, fear and triumph, doubt and unshakeable faith. Each thread tells a story, and every story leads back to one undeniable truth: You are a miracle. Not because life was easy, but because you persevered when the odds were stacked against you. Not because you were expected to succeed, but because you refused to accept what others said you couldn’t do.
Tonight, when I look at old photos of you — so tiny, so fragile, yet so full of life — I feel awe. I feel pride. I feel humbled by the incredible strength you carry within you. You are more than a survivor. You are a warrior. A light. A beacon of hope for everyone who witnesses your journey.
They said “never.”
God said otherwise.
And you said otherwise — every single day.
You are loved beyond measure. You are cherished beyond words. And you are living proof that faith, paired with courage, can rewrite what was once thought impossible.
As your second birthday draws near, we celebrate not just your life — but your journey. We celebrate every step you took, every battle you fought, and every victory you claimed. We celebrate the strength that lives in your heart, the hope that lights your eyes, and the love that surrounds you always.
You are our miracle. Our joy. Our greatest story of triumph. And as we look toward the future — filled with endless possibilities — we hold onto the certainty that with your spirit, there is nothing you cannot face.
You are here.
You are thriving.
And you are loved — more than you will ever know.