the little joys that carry us
A hot cup of coffee handed to you without needing to ask
A message from another medical mama saying “you’re not alone”
A belly laugh that slips out in the middle of grief
The rhythm of the pulse ox monitor at 2 a.m. when it’s stable
A nurse who remembers your child’s name
Someone dropping off dinner “just because”
The feel of your child’s hair between your fingers
A social worker who actually listens
That first moment of stillness after a hard day
A clean syringe drawer (finally)
Watching your kid smile, even through the hard
A sticky note on the mirror that says “you’re doing amazing”
A friend who shows up without needing a reason
Crying with someone instead of alone
Breathing together , you and your child , in rhythm
A good cry that empties out what’s been building
Music that makes you feel seen
Waving at another complex mom across the parking lot
Saying “today was hard” and not needing to explain
Feeling held by a community that gets it
Sometimes it’s not the big milestones that keep us going.
It’s the tiniest flickers of grace. The ordinary glimmers of magic. The quiet proof that we’re not alone in this.
