Healing hands for Hayleigh

03/27/2026

It’s very humbling

💛🎗️

03/22/2026

Mommy & BB at breakfast before church. 🥰
BB & Goose on the playground after church. 🥰

03/21/2026

03/19/2026

Check out addisonsprincessforadaytiktok’s video.

03/18/2026

690 Followers, 253 Following, 1401 Likes - Watch awesome short videos created by The Bravery Box Project

03/18/2026

please join us in helping a family in our community. 🎗️

03/17/2026

Happy Leprechaun Day from Hayleigh 🍀

03/16/2026

Meet Kingsley.
Kingsley is an 11yo 6th grader & lives with his mom, dad and three siblings in Shelby, NC.
Last month, he was diagnosed with B-cell Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia (B-ALL) - the same as what our Hayleigh was diagnosed with.

Kingsley was admitted to Levine Children's Hospital on February 6th. His mom, Bre, says he received his diagnosis six days later.

“I noticed he was losing weight drastically,” she says. “Then during that big week of the snow he stayed in bed and slept constantly. He complained about neck and leg pain and didn’t have an appetite. He loves Chick-fil-A and wouldn’t even eat that, so I made him a doctor’s appointment. I also took him to the ER twice, but wasn’t satisfied with the results. So, on February 6th, I woke up and brought him to LCH.”

The staff in this ER admitted him and began tests.

Bre says the first red flag was that Kingsley's MRI was abnormal.

“After that he started to spike high fevers,” she says. “They found the cancer after doing a bone marrow biopsy. He started his chemo journey and infusion, and we were discharged to go home.”

A few days later, he spiked a fever and had to go back to Levine Children’s.

“I work a full-time job at Food Lion, where I’ve been for 10 years,” Bre said. “I haven’t been to work much because I haven’t left Kingsley’s side. Kingsley’s Dad works as well, but had to be a full-time dad because we have other kids and responsibilities at home.”

The other kids at home—Kingsley’s siblings—are 16, 15, and 7.

✨ I know all of you that love Hayleigh will love Kingsley the same way. Lift him in prayer & share this for others to do the same! ✨

03/03/2026

Teaching our girl to be strong in ALL areas! 💪

03/01/2026

We attended our 3rd Annual Casino Night for Charlie's Champions tonight! This was the first time Hayleigh has attended & she had a great time! She was BIG MONEY at the roulette table! 😂
♣️ ♦️ ♥️ ♠️ 🎲 🎗️

02/25/2026

Every 👏🏻 word 👏🏻 of 👏🏻 this 👏🏻

After your child survives cancer, people expect you to exhale.

They think the hard part is over. The bell rang. The scans are clear. The hospital bags are unpacked. Life is supposed to snap back into place like nothing ever happened.

But nobody talks about what happens inside a mother after.

There’s a terror that doesn’t leave. It just changes shape.

I walk through normal days carrying invisible alarms in my chest. A cough is never just a cough. A bruise is never just a bruise. A headache can steal the air right out of my lungs before my brain has time to be rational. My mind learned a language in those hospital halls that it can’t unlearn. It learned how fast life can flip. It learned how fragile a child’s body can be. It learned what it feels like to sit in a room where your entire world is balanced on a doctor’s breath.

And it doesn’t stop with the child who was sick.

Cancer rewires the way I see all of my children. Every fever one of her brothers gets makes my heart stutter. Every complaint of pain sends my mind sprinting to places I never used to go. I hate that fear touches them too. I hate that a shadow follows moments that should be simple. I watch them play and part of me is celebrating, while another part is quietly begging the universe to let them stay safe. All of them. Always.

That doesn’t disappear when treatment ends.

There’s a grief that lives next to the gratitude. Gratitude that she’s here. Gratitude that we get to wake up together. But grief for the mother I was before I knew how to read lab numbers. Before I knew the sound of infusion pumps. Before I knew the specific silence of a cancer floor at 3 a.m. That version of me is gone. Cancer didn’t just touch her body. It rewired my soul.

Some nights I still wake up in a panic, reaching for a child who is sleeping peacefully right next to me. My body hasn’t caught up to the safety yet. It still thinks we’re fighting. It still thinks we’re counting platelets. It still thinks I have to be ready to run. And sometimes I check on all of them, one by one, just to feel their chests rise and fall, just to prove to my heart that this moment is real.

And the strangest part is doing all of this while smiling. Packing lunches. Folding tiny clothes. Sitting at parties. Laughing with other parents who don’t know that a piece of me is always scanning for danger, always measuring time in what ifs, always whispering thank you for three children I get to tuck in at night.

This is the after no one prepares you for.

Mothers of childhood cancer survivors carry a quiet storm. We are grateful beyond words, yes. But we are also changed in ways that don’t fit into celebration posts. We love harder. We fear deeper. We hold our babies a second longer because we know exactly what it feels like to almost let go.

And if you ever see a mother like me staring a little too long at her children, just know she isn’t being dramatic. She’s remembering the war her heart survived. She’s honoring the miracle in front of her.

She’s breathing in a life she knows is never guaranteed.