My heart aches with a pain I can’t put into words. Some days, it feels like it’s splitting in two, like there’s a constant tug between hope and fear, between faith and exhaustion. Watching Camilo endure so much—so many tubes, so many monitors, so many moments where I wonder if he will ever catch a breath that feels easy—is more than any heart should hold. There are times I just want to run, hide, and somehow take it all away, every struggle, every tear, every heartbeat that reminds me of the fragility of this world.
And yet, I know I cannot. I cannot take this pain for him, cannot fight this fight in his body for him. But I can be here. I can be his anchor. His strength. His hope. His safe place. Even on days when my own body trembles with fatigue, when trauma and sleepless nights weigh down every step, I am here. Right here. Beside him. Clinging to him, clinging to hope, clinging to faith that He is working in ways I cannot see.
And yet, I am broken too. Some nights, after the monitors finally quiet and the nurses step out, I feel the full weight of my own fragility. I feel worn down by unanswered questions, by moments of helplessness, by the relentless ticking of time while my child suffers. I want to have mountain-moving faith, the kind that lays it all at Jesus’ feet and walks away trusting completely, confident that everything will be made right. I want to believe—really believe—that I am enough for him, that my presence, my voice, my prayers carry power, and that my love can be a shield around him.
But days like these? They shake that belief. They make me question everything. Does he feel my strength next to him when he struggles to breathe? Can he hear my voice when I speak with the team, when I advocate for his care, when I plead silently for answers I cannot find? Does he hear me crying out to God, even when I feel like I have nothing left to give? Can he trust that even on my weakest days, I am right here with him, holding on by a thread but refusing to let go, refusing to walk away from this valley with him?
I wonder if he knows my heart. If he can feel my love wrapping around him, enfolding him like a blanket of safety and warmth, even when I cannot hold him the way I want. Even when I cannot take the pain for him, even when I cannot trade places with him and breathe for him, I hope that he knows he is not alone. I hope he knows that my love is fierce. Exhausted. Unshakable.
I pray that he feels the presence of Jesus here with us too—in the quiet moments, in the loud moments, in the fear and the hope, in the small victories and the setbacks. I want him to know that he is never alone, that every beat of his heart is cherished, that every struggle is met with the prayers and the faith of a mother who will fight relentlessly for him.
My sweet Camilo, I see your tiny chest rise and fall, and I see your exhaustion. I see the courage in your eyes, even when your body trembles. I know you are tired, but I promise you: it will get easier. Step by step. Breath by breath. Miracle by miracle. I see the strength you are growing, the resilience you are building. And though the road is long and hard, we walk it together.
I think of all the nights ahead—the ones filled with worry, with monitors, with whispered prayers—and I ask God for healing. For progress. For comfort. For moments of rest that restore your tiny body. I ask for miracles, for breakthroughs, for answers to questions that have none yet. And I pray that joy comes in the morning, as He promised, because each new day carries hope even when the night is dark.
There are moments when I imagine your future, Camilo. I imagine you laughing freely, running, playing, living with the lightness of a child who has survived so much. And I am filled with a fierce, protective hope, the kind that refuses to be shaken no matter how tired I am, no matter how scared I feel. That hope carries me through each night, each monitor beep, each moment of uncertainty.
I whisper to you in the quiet: You are safe. You are loved. You are not alone. I tell you about Jesus, about His strength, His protection, His presence, hoping that even without words, you feel the love surrounding you, the prayers lifting you up. I remind myself too, over and over, that I am not alone. That He is walking this valley with us, that every heartbeat, every breath, every tremor is in His care.
Even on days when I feel my faith waver, I return to this truth: I am here. You are here. And we are moving forward together. Minute by minute, breath by breath, step by step. The weight is heavy, yes, but it is borne together. And that shared weight becomes a testament of love and courage, one that I hope will wrap around you, Camilo, like a shield until you are stronger.
I know this journey will not be easy. There will be setbacks. There will be tears. There will be moments when exhaustion feels like it might break me. But even then, I will not let go. Even then, I will remain by your side, holding you, praying for you, and reminding you of the life, the joy, the miracles that await.
Please, continue to pray with me tonight. Pray for healing. Pray for miracles. Pray for progress and strength. Pray that the comfort of God’s presence wraps around us and carries us through the dark hours. And tomorrow, when the sun rises, may we see a little more strength in you, a little more healing in your body, and a little more peace in your heart.
Joy comes in the morning. And Camilo, my sweet boy, I promise you: we will find it together.
