There’s a thought that has lingered in my heart ever since I first heard it — a thought that brings a strange, peaceful comfort to my grief.
Someone once said,
“Before we came to earth, if we were scared or nervous about anything, it was birth, not death. None of us would have chosen to come without the reassuring promise that it was a round trip — not a one-way ticket.”
That idea has stayed with me like a quiet whisper from Heaven. It reminds me that maybe, before we came here, before our souls took on this fragile human form, we already knew what awaited us — the joy, the pain, the lessons, and the love. And we still chose to come. Because the journey, however brief, was worth it.
When I think about Brielle — my sweet, radiant girl — I can almost imagine her there, before her birth, standing bravely among the angels. Maybe she already knew that her time here would be short. Maybe she understood that her soul’s purpose wasn’t measured in years, but in the light she would bring, the love she would stir, and the hearts she would change forever.
She chose this journey. She chose me.
Sometimes, I replay her beginning in my mind — the first cry, the tiny fingers that wrapped around mine, the warmth of her cheek against my chest. I remember the smell of her hair, the soft hum of her breathing at night, the way her laughter would fill a room with light.
Brielle was one of those children who seemed to carry a piece of Heaven wherever she went. Her eyes had a depth that felt older than her years — as if she remembered something the rest of us had forgotten. She would stare up at the sky and giggle, pointing at nothing visible, as though she saw something I couldn’t — maybe she did.
When I think of the moments we shared, I realize how sacred they were. Every smile, every whisper, every bedtime story — they weren’t just pieces of motherhood. They were glimpses of eternity.
But as quickly as she came, she was gone.
And no matter how much faith I have, no matter how much I remind myself that this is not the end — the ache remains. It’s a weight that never truly lifts. Some days, it’s quiet and bearable. Other days, it feels like it could swallow me whole.
I find myself wishing — wishing for the childhood she’ll never have, for the memories we won’t make, for the milestones that will forever stay out of reach. I ache knowing that she’s not here to run barefoot in the grass, to scrape her knees, to draw with chalk on the driveway, to learn how to read, to grow into the woman she might have been.
But then I breathe, and I remember that maybe she didn’t need all those things. Maybe her soul came here only for a moment — just long enough to touch ours, to teach us something divine, and then return home.
The more I think about it, the more I realize — we all signed up for this round trip. We all knew what it meant to leave Heaven, to enter a world of beauty and pain, of birth and loss. We came anyway, because deep down, we understood that this journey would make us more like God — more compassionate, more humble, more loving.
Maybe when Brielle stood there, ready to leave that place of perfect peace, she looked back at all the souls she loved and said, “I’ll go first. I’ll meet you there again someday.”
I imagine that when she closed her eyes here, she opened them to a crowd of familiar faces — friends and loved ones behind the veil, waiting with open arms. The angels must have cheered as she ran toward them, her laughter echoing like sunlight.
Death, for her, wasn’t an ending. It was a homecoming.
And though my arms ache with the emptiness she left behind, I remind myself — she is not gone. She is simply gone ahead.
Sometimes at night, when the world is still and quiet, I can almost feel her near me. There’s a warmth that brushes my cheek, a flicker of light in the corner of the room, a whisper that feels like her saying,
“I’m okay, Mom. I’m home.”
And in those moments, I let myself believe that she’s closer than I think. That the line between here and there isn’t as far as it feels. That maybe, if I close my eyes and listen softly enough, I can still hear her heartbeat in the rhythm of my own.
Because love — real, eternal love — doesn’t fade when a body does. It lingers, stretching beyond time and space, connecting souls that refuse to be separated.
I’ve come to believe that we don’t really lose our children. We just lose the version of them we expected to hold. Brielle isn’t gone — she’s just living differently now. She’s learning, laughing, growing in a place where pain doesn’t exist.
And maybe, someday, when my own journey is done, she’ll be the first to greet me. I can almost see it: her running toward me, arms open, eyes shining, saying, “You made it, Mom! I’ve been waiting for you!”
That thought doesn’t erase the pain — nothing could — but it transforms it. It reminds me that this love, this bond, is forever. That we are both on the same round trip, and though our paths diverged for a while, they’ll meet again.
Until then, I’ll keep living for her. I’ll love deeper, forgive faster, and look for beauty even in the broken places. I’ll keep believing that her life — however brief — had meaning beyond what I can see.
Because Brielle’s story isn’t just one of loss. It’s one of love, purpose, and the sacred reminder that every soul’s journey is eternal.
And maybe, when all of this is over — when the storms have passed and the tears are dry — I’ll see what she saw all along: that none of this was a one-way ticket. That we were always meant to come home again.
Zofia’s Brave Fight: One More Surgery, One More Chance at Life.2013
Zofia’s Fight: A Little Girl’s Battle After Surgery
The road of illness is never straight. It bends, twists, and throws challenges when parents least expect them. For little Zofia, lovingly called “our Kruszynka” — our tiny treasure — that road has already been far too long and far too difficult for her young age.
Her parents remember the date clearly — June 6th, the day of her surgery. It was supposed to be the turning point, the moment when the hardest part would finally be behind them. They traveled with trembling hands and heavy hearts, but also with hope, trusting that the operation would bring healing and stability to their little girl’s fragile body.
The surgery was done, and at first, they let themselves breathe, telling themselves that perhaps the worst was finally over. For weeks, they clung to the fragile hope that the outcome would hold, that the tiny body of their daughter would be given the strength to recover and live without further complications.
But life has a cruel way of testing even the strongest hearts.
When the time came for a follow-up appointment, the family traveled again — over 400 kilometers from their home — to the hospital in Poznań. The long journey was filled with nervous silence, broken only by whispered reassurances. Her parents told themselves over and over, “This time it will be fine. This time the doctors will smile and say everything looks good.”
But instead, they received the news no parent ever wants to hear.
One of the rods placed during surgery had shifted. The stability they thought had been secured was compromised. Zofia, their precious daughter, would need another procedure.
The words struck them like lightning. Her parents were not prepared for another operation, not prepared for another hospital stay, not prepared for the fear, the waiting, the uncertainty. Their hearts sank as the doctors explained the situation. There was no way home yet — they would need to remain in Poznań for at least two more nights while Zofia underwent the corrective procedure.
It was not just the physical distance from home that weighed heavily on them, but the emotional distance from the life they longed for — a life free of constant medical interventions, a life where Zofia could just be a little girl.
The procedure was scheduled. Once again, their daughter was wheeled into the operating room. Once again, they held each other tightly, tears silently falling as they waited outside, clinging to prayer, clinging to hope, clinging to the thought that this time, everything would be okay.
And Zofia, brave beyond her years, endured. She fought, as she has always fought. When she emerged from surgery, her parents looked into her tired but peaceful face and felt both relief and exhaustion wash over them.
The doctors explained that another check-up would be needed in three weeks. Another trip. Another round of waiting and hoping. Another chance to hear either the reassurance they so desperately long for — or another devastating setback.
Her parents are honest: the fear never leaves. It hides in the background, whispering constantly, reminding them of what could go wrong. Every sigh, every cry from Zofia sends their hearts racing. They live in constant alertness, watching for signs, praying against complications, willing their daughter’s body to heal properly this time.
But alongside the fear is determination. They refuse to give up, refuse to let despair win. Zofia’s spirit has shown them that even the smallest body can carry the greatest strength.
And yet, the fight is not only emotional. It is also financial.
The costs of traveling hundreds of kilometers to specialized hospitals, of multiple hospital stays, of medicines, treatments, follow-up appointments — it all adds up to an overwhelming mountain. Each procedure comes with expenses that weigh heavily on the family. Each extended stay far from home drains not only their energy but also their finances.
Still, they do it, because there is no other option. This is their daughter. This is her life. And nothing matters more than giving her the chance to live, to heal, to be free of pain.
They ask for help not because they want to, but because they must. They know that they cannot carry this burden alone. They know that Zofia deserves every chance at life, every chance to overcome this struggle.
Her parents dream of the day when these long journeys to hospitals will end. They dream of hearing laughter in their home instead of the quiet sobs of worry. They dream of watching their little girl run, play, and live without wires, bandages, and hospital gowns.
Until then, they will continue to fight. They will continue to endure sleepless nights in hospital corridors, long drives across the country, endless bills, and constant fear. They will continue because Zofia is worth every tear, every mile, every sacrifice.
They ask for prayers. They ask for compassion. They ask for support.
Because behind every medical term, behind every hospital stay, behind every cost is a child — a little girl with a name, with a smile that lights up her parents’ world, with a spirit that refuses to give up.
Her parents say it simply but with all the strength of their hearts:
“We will not stop fighting for her. She is our everything. She is our Kruszynka. Please, help us give her a chance at a future.”
And so, Zofia’s story continues — not finished, not defined by her struggles, but shaped by them. With every surgery, every setback, every step forward, she teaches those around her the meaning of resilience, the depth of love, and the unbreakable power of hope.
Her journey is far from easy, but it is far from over. And with the support of those willing to stand beside her family, she can continue to fight, to heal, and to grow into the life she so richly deserves.
For Zofia. For her future. For the chance to see her smile without pain.