Skylah’s life has never been simple. From a very young age, she has faced more medical procedures and diagnoses than most children ever should. Hospital corridors, therapy rooms, and long recovery periods have been part of her normal. And yet, nothing — absolutely nothing — could have prepared us for the curveball that
2025 threw our family.
July 2025 felt ordinary in the best way. Life followed our familiar rhythm. Skylah went to cheerleading, swimming, bike rides, slip ’n slides, trampolining, scooter rides. Her weeks were full of physiotherapy, occupational therapy, speech pathology, and school. Busy, active, joyful. She laughed, she played, she kept up with life just like any other ten-year-old.
The only thing that felt slightly off came at night.
Every evening, Skylah would say her thigh hurt. There was no swelling. No bruising. No visible sign that anything was wrong. Just pain — always at bedtime. After a warm bath, every night for two weeks, she would ask for Panadol. But during the day, she was still doing everything she loved, so I didn’t question it too deeply. Given her medical history, we decided to request a referral to her orthopaedic doctor. After all, Skylah had undergone a double hip reconstruction in 2022, with plates and screws removed in 2023. Pain didn’t feel impossible.
Then life hit us from another direction.
On August 1st, 2025, my mum was diagnosed with breast cancer. My heart broke. She has been my rock — for me and for my four children. As a single mum raising four kids, three of whom have disabilities — Jaycee (19), Destiney (17), Levi (15), and Skylah (10) — my parents have always been my biggest support. I wanted nothing more than to run to my mum’s side and be there for her the way she has always been there for us.
But the very next day, everything changed again.
In the early hours of August 2nd, 2025, I woke to Skylah struggling with her breathing. I took her straight to the hospital, expecting something manageable — RSV, bronchitis, an asthma flare. Something familiar. Something we could treat and go home from.
But that was not what awaited us.
In the emergency department, her chest X-ray was clear. Doctors said she would be monitored for asthma. Then the paediatrician asked a question that shifted everything:
“What have the last two weeks been like?” I explained the nightly leg pain, the Panadol, the quiet complaints. He asked to look at Skylah’s leg.
And there it was.
Swelling.
Something I hadn’t seen before. Something that immediately set off alarms. He ordered X-rays and ultrasounds. Hours passed. Time stretched in that unbearable hospital way, where minutes feel endless and silence becomes terrifying.
Then they walked in.
The paediatrician.
And the oncology doctor.
My heart dropped.
We had met the oncology team before — back in 2017–2018, when Skylah needed chemotherapy and
two bone marrow transplants for MPS1 Hurler Syndrome. I knew that look. I knew what their presence meant. This was not going to be simple.
The doctors told me they had found something that required urgent further investigation. The words came slowly, carefully — but the meaning was clear.
It was looking like bone cancer.
In that moment, the room felt smaller. The air felt heavier. My mind raced through memories I never wanted to relive. I thought of everything Skylah had already endured, everything she had overcome, everything she was never supposed to have to face again.
She had already fought so hard. She had already survived so much.
And now this.
As a mother, there is no pain like watching your child’s life pivot in an instant. One moment, you’re planning school routines and therapy schedules. The next, you’re staring down a diagnosis that threatens everything you believed was finally stabilizing.
Skylah doesn’t know yet how serious this may be. She is still the same bright, determined, resilient girl — the one who keeps going no matter what her body throws at her. And when I look at her, I know one thing with absolute certainty:
We will fight.
We have fought before.
We will fight again.
No matter how unfair this feels.
No matter how exhausted we are.
No matter how heavy the road ahead looks.
Because Skylah is more than her diagnoses.
She is strength in a small body.
She is courage in motion.
And this story — as terrifying as it is — is not over yet.
Page 2
Skylah’s life has never been simple. From a very young age, she has faced more medical procedures and diagnoses than most children ever should. Hospital corridors, therapy rooms, and long recovery periods have been part of her normal. And yet, nothing — absolutely nothing — could have prepared us for the curveball that
2025 threw our family.
July 2025 felt ordinary in the best way. Life followed our familiar rhythm. Skylah went to cheerleading, swimming, bike rides, slip ’n slides, trampolining, scooter rides. Her weeks were full of physiotherapy, occupational therapy, speech pathology, and school. Busy, active, joyful. She laughed, she played, she kept up with life just like any other ten-year-old.
The only thing that felt slightly off came at night.
Every evening, Skylah would say her thigh hurt. There was no swelling. No bruising. No visible sign that anything was wrong. Just pain — always at bedtime. After a warm bath, every night for two weeks, she would ask for Panadol. But during the day, she was still doing everything she loved, so I didn’t question it too deeply. Given her medical history, we decided to request a referral to her orthopaedic doctor. After all, Skylah had undergone a double hip reconstruction in 2022, with plates and screws removed in 2023. Pain didn’t feel impossible.
Then life hit us from another direction.
On August 1st, 2025, my mum was diagnosed with breast cancer. My heart broke. She has been my rock — for me and for my four children. As a single mum raising four kids, three of whom have disabilities — Jaycee (19), Destiney (17), Levi (15), and Skylah (10) — my parents have always been my biggest support. I wanted nothing more than to run to my mum’s side and be there for her the way she has always been there for us.
But the very next day, everything changed again.
In the early hours of August 2nd, 2025, I woke to Skylah struggling with her breathing. I took her straight to the hospital, expecting something manageable — RSV, bronchitis, an asthma flare. Something familiar. Something we could treat and go home from.
But that was not what awaited us.
In the emergency department, her chest X-ray was clear. Doctors said she would be monitored for asthma. Then the paediatrician asked a question that shifted everything:
“What have the last two weeks been like?” I explained the nightly leg pain, the Panadol, the quiet complaints. He asked to look at Skylah’s leg.
And there it was.
Swelling.
Something I hadn’t seen before. Something that immediately set off alarms. He ordered X-rays and ultrasounds. Hours passed. Time stretched in that unbearable hospital way, where minutes feel endless and silence becomes terrifying.
Then they walked in.
The paediatrician.
And the oncology doctor.
My heart dropped.
We had met the oncology team before — back in 2017–2018, when Skylah needed chemotherapy and
two bone marrow transplants for MPS1 Hurler Syndrome. I knew that look. I knew what their presence meant. This was not going to be simple.
The doctors told me they had found something that required urgent further investigation. The words came slowly, carefully — but the meaning was clear.
It was looking like bone cancer.
In that moment, the room felt smaller. The air felt heavier. My mind raced through memories I never wanted to relive. I thought of everything Skylah had already endured, everything she had overcome, everything she was never supposed to have to face again.
She had already fought so hard. She had already survived so much.
And now this.
As a mother, there is no pain like watching your child’s life pivot in an instant. One moment, you’re planning school routines and therapy schedules. The next, you’re staring down a diagnosis that threatens everything you believed was finally stabilizing.
Skylah doesn’t know yet how serious this may be. She is still the same bright, determined, resilient girl — the one who keeps going no matter what her body throws at her. And when I look at her, I know one thing with absolute certainty:
We will fight.
We have fought before.
We will fight again.
No matter how unfair this feels.
No matter how exhausted we are.
No matter how heavy the road ahead looks.
Because Skylah is more than her diagnoses.
She is strength in a small body.
She is courage in motion.
And this story — as terrifying as it is — is not over yet.
