Emily was just two years old when life began showing its cracks.
She was an adventurous toddler—climbing, dancing, laughing with her baby sister Sophie. Her parents, Sarah and Jay, thought everything was perfect. They didn’t see warning signs—tremors she shook off, occasional vomiting when she had a sniffle.
But then one night, something changed.
Emily began trembling while she slept. The shaking would stop quickly, so they thought she was cold or dreaming. But soon, the episodes increased—her arms would quake, her body unsteady. One morning she trembled while trying to bring food to her mouth. She vomited in the car en route to the hospital.
Sarah’s heart raced. She told the triage nurse, through tears: “Something is wrong. Please just find something wrong.”
Doctors at first dismissed her. They sent her home. They told Sarah not to worry unless Emily stops doing normal things. Sarah’s instinct burned inside her: she returned the next day. Emily was listless, uninterested, weaker.
They admitted her. They ordered scans, MRIs, blood work. The truth was brutal: a large brain tumour—bigger than a golf ball, later understood as about the size of an avocado. The tumour had pushed Emily’s brain aside, crowding her skull, threatening function and life.
Sarah and Jay sat in stunned silence when the neurosurgeon told them what they already feared. “We have to operate now. If we wait—or if we remove too much—she may lose movement on her left side.”
For them, the stakes were everything.
They watched Emily go into surgery. Their breaths caught. They held each other, praying she would come back.
When the surgeon returned hours later, tears filled their eyes. “We got most of it. She’s alive.”
They entered her room to see Emily crawling across the bed, singing softly about her friends. Her eyes bright. The tumour was mostly gone.
Recovery was hell too. Her face swelled. She was lethargic. She couldn’t see clearly for days. Pain, nausea, exhaustion. But bit by bit, she returned. She regained movement. She regained function.
Next came a difficult decision: radiotherapy, only possible in the U.S. But radiation at her age could impair her brain development. They joined the ZERO childhood cancer program. Genetic data surfaced something rarer than rare—less than 20 known cases like hers. That discovery became their lifeline. They deferred radiation, betting the tumour wouldn’t return.
For months, Emily lived as a thriving toddler again. She played. She laughed. She ran.
But in April 2025, the tumour returned—small, contained. Scans revealed it in the same spot. Surgeons acted swiftly. They removed it again. Emily surprised everyone by bouncing back fast. Two days, she was discharged—just in time to spend Mother’s Day at home.
Now Emily will begin proton radiation in the U.S. in July, as she turns three. The medication is scary. The uncertainty weighs heavy. But in the six months since her first operation, she’s grown, played, lived.
Sarah says: “If it weren’t for ZERO, she would already have had treatment that might harm her development. Because of it, we have hope that her future might be brighter.”
Emily’s story is not just about cancer. It’s about fighting not just for life—but for quality of life, for dignity, for childhood. It’s about parents who refuse to let fear win.
And now she lives more than a survivor—she lives as hope walking, dancing, breathing.