2s. Will’s mother choked back tears: “Yes, this is his third check-up. I knew when he woke up in pain and crying that it wasn’t just growth pain anymore.”

At the end of Will’s MRI, I went back to grab his clothes and wait on him. Another mom sat in the dressing room area with her son, talking quietly with a medical professional. I wasn’t trying to listen—but then I heard her say,

“Yeah, this is his third test. I just knew when he woke up in pain and crying it was more than just growing pains.”

My heart stopped.

I tuned in without meaning to. It felt like someone drove a knife straight through my chest. I gently asked if they had found anything yet. She said no—just a referral to Children’s after nothing showed on the X-ray. She told me his pain started around the first of November. She’d brushed it off as growing pains at first. A doc-in-a-box thought it was bruised, maybe a small fracture, and told her she needed to go straight to Children’s Hospital.

I sat there listening, nodding, holding myself together.

And in that moment, I was no longer in that dressing room.

I was exactly where I stood one year ago.

January 9, 2025.

The day my life split clean in two—

before diagnosis

and after diagnosis.

The day “growing pains” stopped being harmless words.

The day mother’s intuition became something terrifyingly real.

The day normal ended without asking permission.

I looked at her, and I wanted to say everything and nothing all at once. I wanted to warn her. I wanted to protect her. I wanted to tell her to trust her gut, to breathe while she still could, to hold onto the version of life she knew just a little longer.

But all I could really offer was presence.

Because once you step into this world, you never walk it the same again.

One year ago today, my heart learned a language I never wanted to speak.

And today, sitting beside a stranger, I realized how instantly and quietly it can begin—

with pain, with questions, with a mom who just knows.

January 9 will never just be a date to me.

It’s the line between who we were

and who we were forced to become.

We ended up walking out together and I told her a little of our story trying to protect her from too much of the reality. I told her we would be praying and asked her to get my information in case it did turn out to be more. God, please wrap your arms around that mama and her precious 13 year old son, Caesar.

I told her we would be praying. I asked her to get my information if it turned out to be more than just growing pains—because if it was, she wouldn’t have to walk it alone. I meant every word.

She took me straight back to 365 days ago.

I didn’t just see her…..I saw myself.

Two mamas.

Two 13-year-old boys.

Two hearts stretched thin by an unknown pain.

Both whispering the same prayer: Please let this be simple.

Today reminded me how quickly life can change—and how quietly it begins. Sometimes all God gives us in the moment is each other. A shared hallway. A shared fear. A shared hope.

And sometimes, He uses those who have already walked through the fire to stand beside someone just stepping into it.

One year ago, I didn’t know I’d ever be that person.

Today, I was but please pray that I was only needed at the unknown point and that Caesar does not get diagnosed with anything other than growing pains….