A Mother’s Prayer: Brielle’s Quiet Battle

Brielle is sleeping beside her dad, fragile and peaceful, while I sit here in the stillness, my heart breaking. I’m not a doctor. I’m just a mother watching her little girl hurt, praying for some kind of mercy, some kind of relief.

Two weeks ago, her pain came roaring back — fierce and unrelenting. We increased her medications, held her through the cries, and tried everything we could to make it stop. There is no sound more haunting than the cries of your own child in pain, and no feeling more helpless than knowing you can’t take it away.

For four days, I let everything else go — the teas, the “Miracle Protocol,” the small routines that once made us feel like we still had some control. None of it mattered anymore. All that mattered was Brielle.

In the quiet of the night, I knelt by my bed and whispered to God:
“Please… if I’m meant to stop, show me.”

This isn’t a story about giving up. It’s a story about love so fierce it can hold space for both hope and heartbreak. About a mother’s desperate prayer when the world becomes too heavy for her child.

Brielle is still here, wrapped in love, in arms that won’t let her go. And in this fragile, sacred moment, I’m learning what it means to love someone enough to ask not just for more time… but for peace.