It began quietly — with pain in his bones that didn’t make sense. What seemed small at first slowly became impossible to ignore. Scans. MRIs. Long pauses in sterile rooms. Then words no parent is ever prepared to hear:
Ewing sarcoma.
For 9-year-old Mikey Martinez and his South Texas family, the diagnosis landed like an earthquake.
Mikey is the kind of kid who lights up a room — bright, curious, quick to smile. He is deeply loved by his parents, Catherine and Mario, and by his two brothers and sister who now measure their days in hospital visits instead of school schedules.
Doctors believe the cancer has only been present for a few months — a detail that brings cautious hope. There is a plan. Chemotherapy begins this week. Targeted cell therapy is being prepared if needed. Radiation and surgery will likely take place in Houston, where specialists are ready to fight alongside him.
When Mikey was told what his body is up against, he listened. Quietly. Bravely. But how does a 9-year-old truly understand something so big?
How do you explain cancer without stealing courage?
Maybe you don’t start with the word “cancer.”
Maybe you start with this:
Mikey, your body is incredibly strong. But sometimes, a few cells forget how to behave. They start growing the wrong way, and that can make your bones hurt. The doctors have powerful medicine that knows how to find those troublemaker cells and stop them. The treatments might make you tired. They might be tough. But they are your team — and your body is on that team too.
You didn’t do anything to cause this. And you are not fighting alone. Mom, Dad, your brothers, your sister, your doctors — and so many people you haven’t even met yet — are standing with you. Every single step.
Courage doesn’t mean not being scared. It means being scared and showing up anyway.
And Mikey is already doing that.
His family is holding tightly to faith — believing this is curable. Believing their boy’s strength will shine through the hardest days. Believing that love and prayer carry weight, even in hospital rooms.
As treatment begins, they have one simple request: lift Mikey up.
Surround him with kindness. With steady words. With hope that feels bigger than fear.
If Mikey could read something right now, maybe it would be this:
You are stronger than this diagnosis.
You are bigger than these hospital walls.
You are not defined by what your body is fighting — but by the heart inside your chest.
And that heart is brave.
