Hi.
I didn’t know how heavy waiting could feel until I became a mother waiting for answers.
Waiting in hospital corridors.
Waiting for calls that don’t come.
Waiting for someone to finally look at your child and say, we see it too.
Arthur’s health has been a season of ups and downs — in and out of appointments, in and out of hospital rooms, carrying hope one day and fear the next. Some days we walk in believing this will be the visit that brings clarity. Other days we walk out with more questions than we brought in.
There is a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from being unheard.
Not loud exhaustion — not the kind you sleep off — but the quiet kind that settles in your bones and stays there.
For a long time, I felt like I was standing on the edge of something, shouting into the dark:
Something isn’t right.
And hearing only echoes in return.
When it’s your child, it’s different.
You don’t get to put the fear down.
You don’t get to step away from the worry.
You carry it into bedtime stories and morning routines and school runs and the middle of the night when your mind won’t rest.
And then — slowly — something shifted.
Not suddenly.
Not dramatically.
But enough to feel.
Doctors began to listen differently.
Questions were asked that hadn’t been asked before.
Tests were mentioned instead of brushed aside.
Plans started to sound like plans instead of pauses.
For the first time in a long while, I felt something that surprised me:
relief.
Not because we had answers — we still don’t.
But because someone finally believed us.
Because being taken seriously feels like being held.
I don’t know what comes next.
I don’t know what the results will say or what paths we’ll be sent down.
I only know that living in the unknown changes you.
It teaches you to celebrate the smallest signs of progress.
It teaches you patience you never asked for.
It teaches you how to love fiercely while standing on shaky ground.
Some days I feel strong.
Some days I feel like I’m holding my breath through every appointment, every conversation, every wait.
And then I look at him — at the way he smiles without knowing the weight we carry for him — and I remind myself why I keep showing up, even when it feels like too much.
Because this is what motherhood looks like when love meets fear.
This is what strength looks like when hope feels fragile.
This is what it means to keep going when you don’t have answers yet — but you have faith in your own voice.
We’re still waiting.
But now, at least, we’re being heard.
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