The little girl that I wrote about has passed away and I am feeling sad, angry and emotional about it. I don’t know that you can ever reconcile when a child is taken from the world. A child. A girl who never got to have a boyfriend, or get caught sneaking out of the house, a girl who’ll never go to college, will never write the cookbooks she wanted to write, and will never dance at her wedding.

In the same breath, I know that I am glad she is no longer in pain and I feel blessed to have known her. I remember sitting in a meeting with my supervisor who asked me, “how are you doing, working with such a sick child?” and I asked her in return, “have you ever felt like like you were just meant to be somewhere?” because that is how I felt working with her. Our lives collided because they were meant to. She was meant to teach me about true courage and I was meant to support her in telling her story. This I know in my heart, and will carry it forward with me – every time I feel sorry for myself I will remember how hard she fought to be alive. Every time I wear the bracelet she made me, I will smile. Every time I hear that damn silver bell she gave me that jingles all the time in my car and drives me crazy – I will laugh out loud, and know she is flying high, watching over us all.

I was able to contact my supervisors from my past job, and they supported me in my desire to send flowers to the family to acknowledge their loss and let them know I’m thinking of them. This type of event falls into a very grey area, as I’m not supposed to contact them after leaving my job so I’m glad I reached out to them for their support and to know which way to go. I was heartbroken at the idea of not being able to say anything to them, and now I can, however indirectly. I know that working with her was my “job,” but this is human work I do, and sometimes the rules have to bend.

Thank you for all of your love and support out there in the interwebs. I appreciate it more than you can know.

Rest in peace, kiddo.

“The moon will rise, the sun will set, but I won’t forget.”

She is 14, but we met when she was 10.

She was my first client in my outpatient therapy job.

The first thing she told me was that she was never going to talk to me about her life.

So for the first few weeks, we sat together in silence for a hour.

But once she opened up, her words flowed like waterfalls.

She has an infectious laugh.

She is brave.

She taught me the Cha-Cha slide.

Her favorite game in sessions was charades.

Her incentive chart included being able to throw a whip creme pie at her Grandfather if she did all her homework.

She loves to color, to draw, to dance, and dress up her dogs.

She has been sick since she was born.

She believes in angels.

She is true courage, hope, and joy personified.

She has told me more than once that even know everyone believed she would get better, that she knew that she would not be on the Earth for very long, and she wanted to enjoy every minute.

In June I saw her and her family for the last time. I was leaving and she was so mad at me.

She had tears in her eyes as I walked away.

She is 14 and does not understand therapeutic boundaries, confidentiality, and why, even after working with her for almost 4 years, that I cannot maintain contact with her.

I learned through a strange grapevine that she is dying.

And I can only hope that her body and heart finds peace, and that although I cannot reach out to her, I hope she knows how much she changed my life.

I’m totally gonna be THAT person.

The person that begs you to go to THIS PAGE and vote for Skeeter. He can win 3 days of free dog daycare – which will save me $60! And then, I’m gonna ask you again this weekend, because he has the chance to save us $75 off rent.

Please forgive me while I go in the corner and scream for Skeeter to stand up straight and smile big, just like all the other dance Moms.

PS: THANK YOU!!