Emilia was seven now, but when this all started, she was only five.
It was September 2023. Her asthma flared up like usual after a viral infection, something her parents had seen before. But then came a “stomach bug” that refused to go away. She didn’t bounce back. She stayed quiet, pale, refusing food, asking for the hospital. Her mother, Danielle, held her hand in the ER, heart pounding. “This is more than a bug,” she whispered under her breath.
Scans revealed something no parent wants to hear. A tumor, sitting low beneath Emilia’s lungs. They moved fast. Local hospital to University of Michigan’s Mott Children’s Hospital. Oncologists touched her shoulder, telling her parents: “We think it might be neuroblastoma.”
When the diagnosis came in, it was worse than they feared: neuroblastoma, with ALK and MYCN genetic markers—these can make the cancer aggressive.
Emilia didn’t understand everything, but she knew the hospital bed wasn’t for fun. She asked: “Mom, will I still dance with my friends?” Danielle held back tears: “Yes, sweetheart. We’ll fight—so you can dance again.”
Chemotherapy began that October. ICU rooms, quiet nights, bright lights at 3 a.m., needles, medications. Days that felt endless.
The doctors’ voices were heavy, but there was also kindness. Nurses who brought her coloring books. Other patients’ families who shared smiles. One night, she coughed and asked for a song. “The one about butterflies,” she said, voice cracking. Danielle sang “Butterfly, open your wings…” and Emilia closed her eyes, drifting.
For months she endured chemo, immunotherapy, radiation. Scans showed the tumor shrinking—from the size of a grapefruit to that of a lime.
Then came surgery: minimally invasive, small incisions, delicate maneuvers. Removal of the remaining mass. She recovered fast, home the next day.
But in May 2024, just after her sixth birthday, Emilia went into septic shock. Danielle was with her. Emilia lay tiny and brittle. “Mom, I’m cold,” she whispered. Danielle washed her hair, held her hand. Nurses fought for her life. It was one of the darkest nights.
But Emilia fought back. She came through.
After that, they saw every sunrise, every moment as precious. Summer camp. Vacations. Pool days. She danced. She cheered. She wore bright dresses and posed in hospital rooms for photos—sassy, confident, dancing even in treatment, even when her body shook. They called her “Emilia the Warrior Princess.” Because that’s what she was.
October came, treatment was completed. Scans every three months. And though the road ahead still has steps to climb, Emilia lives. Not just surviving—but living.
Because she said yes to hope. Because she believed she’d dance again. Because even when life almost slipped away, she held on with optimistic sassiness.