Brave Enough Because Amelia

What my child's death is teaching me about how to live in these times

I’ve opened my laptop. My fingering is hovering over the Gmail shortcut on my browser’s task bar. My nervous system floods with dread. Overwhelm. If you were in my body right now, you would think I was in a boat preparing to storm the beaches of Normandy on D-Day. But I happen to just be checking my e-mail. And I really need to check my e-mail. In my email is my bank statement (the number steadily declining because, yes, still unemployed), bills to pay (hopefully the number in said bank statement will still be more than bills needed to pay), job connection follow-ups (but how can I ever work again). Really, the root of it all, is the feeling that maybe someone has died in my email. It’s all just stupid hard. And it should be stupid easy.

Last week anytime this happened, I went to bed. Closed my laptop. Climbed into bed. Today I will not to climb into bed. I will drink a glass of water. I will breath. I will do. My flooded nervous system causes me to feel threatened, but today I will be brave. Because Amelia.

For the last several weeks, I have been looking through my camera roll to see pictures this day last year. I’m not sure why. It seems to be some sort of exercise in masochism. Why would I want to retraumatize myself by re-living Amelia’s last eight months with us? I don’t know, but all I know is I cannot not look. I scroll through screens and screens of photos all capturing our pain. Even the beautiful moments are laced with grief. But I also see bravery.

There is a picture of Amelia and I lying together on her bed at Randall’s Children’s Hospital, a few days after diagnosis. Her eyes are locked on mine. I remember this moment vividly. There were more than a few such moments. I can still pull up the image of her eyes in my mind’s eye, sharp and clear. It was the first time I remember having nothing to offer my child. She would put her hand on my face, tears spilling. “I don’t want to leave you, mama.” Her eyes bored into mine for any hint that there was a way out. There wasn’t. All I could do was put my hand on her cheek and say, “I don’t want you to leave either.” And we would look at each other and we would cry together. After threatening to drown us, the wave of grief would eventually roll back into the sea, leaving us to catch our breath for a while.

For the next eight months this is how we lived. Riding the pain together, letting it flood our bodies, almost drowning us, receding just in time. We got up. We lived. And when she couldn’t get up anymore, I got up and carried her. After 7 months, the end began. For six weeks we watched Amelia actively die as the tumor destroyed her body’s ability to operate in the physical world.

I often see her going to school for the first time. Walking through the double doors of Astor Elementary, backpack just about as big as her, giddy, excited, nervous, looking back for one final wave. Then, with all the other parents, I leave. Go home or to work, while our children live a full 7 hours without us - an entire existence begins for them of which we are no longer part. Sort of. We do get to pick them up at three. And they report back to us. In Amelia’s case, a steady stream of dialogue. “Am I talking to much, mom? I just like to tell you about my day.” And maybe some great things happened. And maybe some hard things happened. And regularly funny things happened. You celebrate the good, you offer what can to help navigate the hard, always available to advocate on their behalf if the hard is above their paygrade. And so this rhythm of leaving and returning continues equipping our children to become more steady in the leavings. We are always in the wings, waiting. There is always home at the end of the day. A snack and a hug and interest and love.

And so it continues. College, maybe. Your kid leaves in a bigger way. And you aren’t there everyday, but you remain on the other end of a phone and Christmas break and summer vacation, if they want. You can still mail them their favorite snacks and maybe even bail them out when they didn’t quite get how a credit card works (how exactly did they miss that lesson?).

Eventually the leaving is complete. They make their own home. Your safety net no longer necessary. They become fully their own - able, skillful, resilient. They become the net for someone else. Maybe a child, maybe you, as you age. Ultimately, you are the one who leaves finally and forever. And they are alone in a new way and they grieve, but they are ready. At least, this is how I imagine it is supposed to go.

In my new reality, I consider often: what does it require of ten year old child to fast forward to that final leaving without all the incremental steps in between. To walk toward those double doors, into the unknown beyond, no backpack (because you can’t take anything with you, not even your body), knowing there would be no pick up, no check in, no returning home for a hug or a snack. To just go. All of eleven years old when that moment arrives.

Bravery. Raw, real bravery right in front of me every day.

A few days after Amelia died, a friend shared with me the children’s song Wings by Freckland. It is a song about Amelia Earheart, but to me it is about my Amelia. I still find myself singing this verse to myself most days,

You were oh so brave,
Crossed the ocean wave,
Up in that plane all by yourself...

My two living daughters often then belt out,

Oh-oh-oh Amelia, you remind me I have wings!

This all runs through my mind as my cursor hovers. Amelia is gone. She’s been gone for five months. The world has become a terrifying place where anything can happen. But I think about Amelia, brave Amelia, and I click. And it’s fine. Of course, it’s fine. There’s still money in my account. I can still pay my bills. A school newsletter. A sweet email from a friend who is old school about communication. Most importantly, no one died in there. So, yes, of course, its all fine, but that’s not the point. The point is that whether or not it will be fine, in five minute increments, I have been following Amelia’s example. To be brave. To be just brave enough to do the next thing in front of me.

A wave of difficult emotions that tell me to flee or fight. Just brave enough, Anne. And I feel.

Asking for help…yet again. Why don’t you have it together yet? Just brave enough, Anne. And I share the go-fund me link again. Accept another meal.

Write imperfectly. Share. But it’s vulnerable. It’s probably missing a couple commas. Just brave enough, Anne. And I hit the orange publish button. Post the thing. Make the reel.

Just, brave enough. Over and over. All the way to the end. Like Amelia.

And this brings me to my country today. The political climate here in America is asking us to level up as humans in ways we may never have considered before. We know history -Stalin’s Russian, anyone? - we have seen this story play out. (News flash: there is nothing unique about what this administration is doing. Oldest plays in the book.) If we are awake, we likely find ourselves afraid - for our planet, our Constitution, our democracy, maybe ourselves, definitely our children. And if we are thinking critically, we wonder who we will be when it matters. Are we the type of people who would have hidden our Jewish neighbors in Hitler’s Germany or printed the anti-state narrative words that meant exile in a Siberian work camp? Would we have helped get our enslaved brothers and sisters north on the underground railroad with dogs and powerful white men fueled by ignorance, hate and guns on our trail. Will we be able to do what the times require of us? I find my answer in the life of a child waiting to die.

Looking at these pictures each day, I see all the little acts of bravery that make up a life. All her little acts of bravery from September 19, 2024 to May 24, 2025, strengthening that muscle bit by bit for her final act of bravery: crossing the finish line alone.

Oh, Amelia, you remind me I have wings.

I hope we as a people will not need to find out exactly what we are capable of, good or evil, but that may not be something we get to decide. What we can do, however, what I can do, is to follow my daughter’s example. I can practice defiance in small acts of bravery each day. Bravery does not always save a life. Bravery does not mean it will all be fine. Bravery does not mean you will not die a painful and unjust death. We usually don’t get to know the end of the story. Amelia knew the end of her story and she chose to live bravely anyway. So what excuse do I have to not be brave enough just for today?

Brave enough to put your feet on the floor.

Brave enough to make your bed.

Brave enough to feel sad.

Brave enough to feel angry.

Brave enough to feel scared.

Brave enough to be silly.

Brave enough to see beauty. Brave enough to create beauty.

Brave enough to plant daffodil bulbs that you may not see bloom.

Brave enough to imagine a more beautiful version of humanity.

Brave enough to do what needs to be done when that humanity is threatened.

Be brave enough to keep growing. Living things grow. You are alive. So grow.

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