The Mother of Angels: A Story of Grief, Strength, and the Will to Keep Going

Today is Boy’s Day — a day that once brought laughter, hugs, and little handmade cards. But this year, for one mother, it brings only silence.

Her daughter Julka can no longer run to her father and brother with wishes of love. She can only whisper them quietly in her heart, carrying their memory wherever she goes — because both are gone.

Her father.
Her brother.
Her world.

Julka’s mother writes, “Every day without them is hard. But on days like this, it feels unbearable.”

She is now the mother of angels

— a title no one wants, a pain no one deserves. It means living between two worlds: one where memories breathe, and one where silence echoes. It means finding the strength to wake up each morning, knowing two pieces of your heart will never return. 

“Being the mother of an Angel,” she says, “means eternal longing, tears that never stop, and pain that never leaves. It means holding a photo instead of a hand. It means asking yourself questions that have no answers.”

A Mother’s Endless Grief

The poems she writes are not just words — they are cries from a soul trying to survive what cannot be survived.

Being the mother of an Angel

means not being able to touch,
not being able to hug,
disappearing somewhere in tears. 

It means holding a photo and asking yourself whose fault it is.
It means cuddling the longing,

the pillow that still carries the scent of your child. 

It means having a hole in your heart, empty Sundays,
and silence where “I love you, Mom” used to be.

 

Each line bleeds love. Each word aches with the weight of memory.

And yet, amidst the sorrow, there is one fragile thread of hope — Julka, the daughter who remains, still fighting, still breathing, still here.

Julka’s Fight to Return

Julka is also battling her own pain — both the one that lives inside her heart and the one that has taken hold of her body. Every day, she pushes through rehabilitation, determined to walk, move, and live again as she once did.

“She fights every day,” her mother says softly. “She exercises because she wants to return — to live the life she had before.”

But healing is not simple. It is long, exhausting, and often lonely. The cost of ongoing rehabilitation and medical care is overwhelming, yet essential. It is what keeps Julka moving forward — what helps her rebuild a body weakened by grief and circumstance.

“She has lost so much already,” her mother says. “We can’t let her lose hope too.”

The Power of Compassion

Despite her own pain, Julka’s mother continues to thank those who have stood beside them.

“To everyone who supports us — thank you,” she writes. “Your kindness gives us the strength to keep going, to keep fighting through the pain. Every message, every donation, every gesture reminds us that we are not alone.”

Each act of compassion — a helping hand, a word of comfort, a simple prayer — becomes a lifeline for a family still learning how to live with absence.

A Heart That Still Beats for Love

To be the mother of angels is to live with love that has nowhere to go. It’s to talk to the stars at night and imagine tiny footsteps in the clouds. It’s to find traces of laughter in dreams, to reach out and feel only air — yet still whisper,

“I love you.”

Julka’s mother carries her grief like a shadow — silent, constant, but never completely dark. Because even in her pain, she continues to love, to hope, to believe that somewhere beyond this world, her children and husband are waiting — smiling, watching, proud.

And here on Earth, Julka fights on — for them, for her mother, for the promise of life.

💔 If you can, please stand beside them. Your support — no matter how small — helps Julka continue her rehabilitation, and gives her mother the strength to keep walking through a life forever marked by loss, but still illuminated by love.

Because even broken hearts can keep beating — and even in grief, love endures.

A Teacher’s Haircut: How One Act of Compassion Restored a Child’s Confidence

In every classroom, there are lessons that go far beyond textbooks. They are not found in worksheets or exams, but in the quiet, powerful ways teachers choose to care for their students. One such lesson unfolded recently when a teacher named Shannon Grimm made a deeply personal sacrifice to protect a 5-year-old girl named Prisilla.

Prisilla, a kindergartner full of energy and curiosity, had always loved school. But that joy began to fade when her classmates started teasing her for something she could not change—her short haircut. Day after day, the words chipped away at her confidence. The laughter and taunts left her feeling isolated, sad, and unsure of herself. She admitted through tears that she cried because it hurt so much.

Her teacher, Shannon, noticed the change. She saw a once-bright little girl growing quiet and withdrawn, the sparkle in her eyes dimming. And Shannon knew she couldn’t simply watch it happen.

“I don’t want my students to ever feel like their confidence is down,” Shannon explained later. “I don’t want them to dread coming to school because of the way people look at them or the things people say. I want them to love being here.”

So Shannon made a bold choice. She picked up a pair of scissors and cut her own long hair short—very short—to match her student’s.

It was not an easy decision. Shannon admitted that when she walked into a grocery store or ran errands, she sometimes felt self-conscious. People stared. She missed the comfort of her longer hair. Yet none of that mattered compared to the message she wanted to send to one child: You are not alone.

When Shannon stepped into the classroom the next day, her students gasped. Their teacher looked different—shockingly so. Whispers spread across the room, but before long, a small figure stood up. Prisilla walked toward her teacher, eyes wide, and wrapped her arms around her. It was not just a hug. It was relief. Gratitude. Belonging.

In that moment, the teasing no longer had the same power. Prisilla saw that if her teacher could stand tall and confident with short hair, so could she.

Shannon’s haircut did more than change appearances. It transformed the atmosphere of her classroom. The children saw firsthand that kindness is louder than cruelty, that respect is more powerful than ridicule. They learned that leadership sometimes means sacrifice—and that love can be shown in the simplest, most personal ways.

For Prisilla, it meant rediscovering her courage. Slowly, her smile returned. She began to hold her head a little higher, to laugh more freely, to reengage with her classmates. She was no longer the “girl who looked like a boy.” She was simply Prisilla, cherished and valued for who she was.

For Shannon, the haircut became a symbol of what it means to be a teacher—not just to instruct, but to inspire. “It always grows back,” she said of her hair. “But the chance to make a child feel loved and accepted? That’s priceless.”

Stories like this remind us that education is not confined to academics. Children may forget their spelling lists and math facts, but they will never forget how they were made to feel. In one act of selflessness, Shannon taught an entire class that differences should be embraced, not mocked.

In a world where children—and adults—often feel pressure to look or act a certain way, Shannon’s choice speaks volumes. True beauty lies not in appearance but in compassion. True courage is not in standing apart, but in standing beside someone who feels alone.

One teacher, one pair of scissors, one brave little girl. Together, they gave a classroom—and all who hear their story—a lesson in empathy that will never fade.

Because hair does grow back. But the memory of kindness lasts forever.