“The Day Althea Said Goodbye to Her Hair — But Not Her Courage”.2435

💛 Althea’s Brave Monday — The Day We Said Goodbye to Her Hair 💛

It started like any other Monday morning.
Sunlight filtered weakly through the curtains. The kettle hummed. Life went on — as it always does, even when your heart feels like it’s walking a tightrope between strength and breaking.

But that morning held more emotion than most.
It wasn’t just another start to the week — it was another milestone in a journey none of us ever imagined taking.

Althea had already lost most of her hair during the first month of induction treatment. That was back when everything still felt new and terrifying — when hospital corridors seemed endless and the beeping of monitors became the soundtrack of our lives.

During those early weeks, she was so small and pale, yet her spirit never wavered. After two weeks in the hospital, we’d decided to trim her long, silky hair — cutting off five inches and leaving her with a sweet little bob that framed her delicate face.

For a short while, it looked perfect.
But soon, her hair thinned into fine, wispy strands — the kind that barely caught the light, fragile as spider silk. We called them “fairy hairs.” She laughed at that.

Still, she didn’t want to cut the rest.
And we didn’t push her.

We’d already watched so much of her life get taken away — control over her body, her energy, her comfort. Hair was something she could still decide about. So we let her.

And in that quiet act of choice, there was power.

She accepted her changing reflection with a kind of grace I didn’t know children could have.
Sometimes she even surprised us with little bursts of wisdom, the kind that cracked your heart open with love.

One afternoon, after waking from a fever nap, her face flushed and her voice groggy, she said softly, “I’m glad I don’t have much hair anymore, because I’d be really hot with long hair right now.”

Just like that — a child finding light where adults often only see loss.

But there were darker moments too.
Moments when her courage gave way to quiet questions.
Like the evening she sat next to me, tracing her small fingers over the thinning patches on her head. She didn’t cry, she didn’t complain — she just whispered, “Do you still love me the same… even though I look different?”

Those words — so gentle, so unsure — pierced deeper than any diagnosis ever could.

I held her close, pressing my lips to her forehead, my voice trembling as I told her the truth:

“I love you more. Always more.”

But inside, I broke a little.

Because no parent is ever prepared for that question — the one that reveals the moment a child starts to see themselves through the world’s eyes.

Lately, the hair loss has returned, thanks to a certain chemotherapy drug in this third phase of treatment. Each morning, her pillow is dusted with strands. Each brush stroke leaves more behind.

So I suggested something gentle — something that would give her a sense of control again.
“What if we braid it together,” I told her, “and cut it at home? You can keep your plaits in a special memory box.”

Her face lit up instantly.
Not with sadness — but excitement.

She ran upstairs, rummaging through her drawers, and came back clutching a small box — one she’d decorated with stickers and stars. Her “special box,” she said proudly.

“This is perfect for my hair,” she beamed.

I smiled back, but my heart sank under the weight of it all.

We waited a couple of days. We wanted to make it peaceful — just for the two of us. So we waited until Pipaluk, her younger sister, was at nursery (because, let’s be honest, the last thing we needed was a toddler suddenly inspired to give herself a haircut!).

When the day came, it felt tender and strange.
I wasn’t prepared for the wave of emotion that hit the night before, when I washed her hair for the last time.

The bath was filled with the familiar scent of baby shampoo — the same one we’d used since she was a toddler. Her laughter echoed off the tiles as I gently massaged her scalp. But inside, I was aching.

Because I knew — I knew — it might be a long time before I’d get to do that again.

The next morning, she sat cross-legged on the living room floor, a towel around her shoulders, ready.
Her little hands held the box close.

Tom walked in quietly, his eyes already glassy. Neither of us spoke. There are moments in life where words feel unnecessary — where love and pain mix so completely that silence says everything.

As I began to braid her hair, I felt the strands slipping through my fingers — so fine, so fragile, yet so precious. She giggled as I tickled her ear accidentally. “Mum, careful!” she teased.

When I tied off the final braid, she looked up at me with those wide, honest eyes. “Ready,” she said.

And in one soft snip, it was done.

Her hair fell into my hand — warm, soft, alive with memory.
I placed it gently in her box.

Tom exhaled, his voice breaking as he whispered, “She’s beautiful.”

We both cried then — quiet, messy tears that blurred the line between grief and pride. Because in front of us stood our undeniably obvious “cancer kid” — the child with the bald head and brave eyes — and yet, she had never looked more radiant.

Althea looked at herself in the mirror, tilting her head this way and that.
Then, with the pure innocence only children possess, she smiled and said, “I look like a baby now! And babies are adorable! I didn’t have a ‘tubey’ when I was a baby and I was happier then.”

Her words cut deep — another tiny, innocent knife twist to the heart.

But she wasn’t sad.
She was glowing.

Her face shone with pride, her spirit unbroken. She ran to Tom, laughing, and asked him to take a picture. “This is my new style!” she said proudly.

And in that moment, I realized something: she wasn’t losing her hair — she was shedding fear.

She was becoming lighter, freer, more herself.

That night, as I tucked her into bed, she ran her hand over her newly bare head and whispered, “It feels like soft clouds.” Then she smiled up at me and said, “Do you think the other kids will think it’s cool?”

I nodded through my tears. “They’ll think you’re amazing.”

Because she is.

Althea has taught us that beauty doesn’t vanish with hair — it shines through the spaces it leaves behind. That courage isn’t always loud — sometimes it’s found in a child’s quiet acceptance of change.

And that even when Monday mornings start with tears, they can end in grace.

Now, when I look at her — her smooth scalp catching the sunlight, her big curious eyes full of life — I no longer see what’s missing.
I see everything that’s still here: strength, love, laughter, hope.

She’s radiantly beautiful. Completely herself.
Completely unstoppable.

“An 11-Year-Old’s Fight Against Leukemia: A Family, a Community, and a Miracle”.950

Every day, Nichole Blevins wakes up with the same thought heavy on her heart: her son, Branson, is still fighting for his life. At just 11 years old, Branson Blevins of Robertsdale, Alabama, is in Rome, Italy, recovering from a bone marrow transplant—his own mother, Nichole, providing the gift of her blood cells. The fight is relentless. In the days following the transplant, Branson contracted adenovirus, a dangerous complication that threatened to undo the progress he had worked so hard to make.

Through every tense moment, Nichole has carried not just the weight of her son’s illness, but the weight of the world it has thrust upon her family. She has seen exhaustion creep into Donald’s eyes, her husband who has always been the steadfast provider, whose work has defined so much of who he is. She has felt the aching absence of normalcy, of simple routines that other families take for granted. And yet, through it all, there has been a force lifting them when they could not lift themselves: a community that refused to let them face this battle alone.

“Over the last year,” Nichole writes, her words trembling with both gratitude and fatigue, “our family has been carried in ways we never could have imagined. The generosity, support, prayers, and love poured over us has been nothing short of an absolute miracle. Every single day, Donald and I sit in complete shock and speechlessness, trying to wrap our minds around it all. There are simply no words big enough to truly express the depth of our gratitude.”

Their journey has been harrowing. Twice, doctors delivered the devastating news that there was nothing more to do, that Branson should be taken home to live out his final days. But Nichole and Donald refused to accept that fate. They fought with every ounce of strength they had, navigating a maze of obstacles that would have broken even the strongest among us. When insurance refused to cover treatment abroad, they found a way. When they arrived in Rome and faced the brutal reality of a $600,000 price tag for Branson’s survival, they did not falter. Losing their son was simply not an option.

And yet, the reason they have been able to endure this impossible fight is not just their own strength—it is the love of a community that has rallied around them. Since August 2024, fundraisers after fundraisers have reminded them that they are not alone, that there are countless hands and hearts willing to fight alongside them. Nichole reflects on the sacrifices they have made—the abrupt pause in her career, Donald stepping away from work—and the unbearable pressure of living in the middle of a storm that never seems to ease.

“But the reason we’ve been able to stay afloat,” she writes, “is because of you. From the bottom of our hearts, thank you. Thank you for showing up, for giving, for praying, for believing when everything seemed impossible. Branson’s fight is far from over, but because of the love of this community, he’s still here. And so are we. We will never stop being grateful. We will never stop remembering what you’ve done for our family. You’ve given us more than support… you’ve given us hope, and you’ve given Branson the chance at life he deserves. And I promise not an ounce of it has gone unnoticed.”

It has been over a year since Branson was diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, a year filled with hospital rooms, uncertainty, and a relentless fight for survival. For Nichole and Donald, every day brings worry, exhaustion, and a prayer that somehow, someway, Branson’s health will be restored. But despite the fatigue, despite the fear, they remain steadfast, holding onto hope made real by the love of thousands.

Branson’s journey is far from over, but in every heartbeat, every breath, every small victory, the world’s support is tangible. It is a reminder that when a community comes together, miracles are possible. And for Nichole, Donald, and Branson, that miracle is a second chance at life, hope, and the promise of a future where their son can grow, laugh, and live beyond the bounds of illness.