My name is Tala, and I am 20 years old.

Not long ago, my dreams were like those of any other young woman my age — simple, beautiful, full of color and possibility. I wanted to study hard, to travel the world, to fill my days with laughter, friends, and endless plans for the future. I dreamed of walking down city streets I had never seen, tasting new foods, learning new languages, and feeling that the whole world was waiting for me.

But everything changed in a single moment. In one heartbeat, all those dreams scattered like glass. Today, my greatest wish is no longer about adventures or distant horizons. My biggest dream is simply — to survive.

It all began when I heard the words that shattered my world: “You have Hodgkin’s lymphoma.” Blood cancer. I can still remember the silence that followed, the way the air seemed to disappear from the room. My mother cried quietly beside me, trying to be strong, while I sat frozen, unable to believe that this was happening to me.

At first, I held on tightly to hope. I told myself that I would beat this — that treatment in my home country would be enough. I went through rounds of chemotherapy, facing each session with courage I didn’t know I had. The needles, the pain, the exhaustion — I told myself it was all temporary. But then, the nightmare deepened. My body stopped responding to treatment. The doctors, with honesty in their eyes and sorrow in their voices, told me there was nothing more they could do. The medicines I needed didn’t exist there. My life could not be saved in my own homeland.

It’s terrifying to realize that your only chance to live means leaving everything you know behind — your home, your friends, your language, your comfort. With the last ounce of courage in my heart, I left everything familiar and traveled to Israel, where doctors offered me one fragile hope: a bone marrow transplant. It was my only chance — a single, narrow bridge between life and death.

But hope often comes with a price too heavy to bear. The cost of the surgery was enormous — far beyond what my family could afford. My mother, a single parent who raised me and my siblings with endless love but limited means, was crushed by the numbers. My father was never part of our lives. We were on our own — frightened, heartbroken, but unwilling to surrender.

So we did the only thing we could: we asked the world for help. We opened our hearts and shared our story, hoping that someone out there might listen. And then, something extraordinary happened. A miracle.

People we had never met — strangers from every corner of the world — began to reach out. They donated, they wrote messages of strength and love, and they reminded us that kindness still exists. Because of them, I was able to undergo the transplant. Because of them, I am still here today — breathing, smiling, writing these words. You gave me the greatest gift anyone can give: a second chance at life.

But cancer is relentless. Just when I thought I had finally escaped, it returned in another form. The doctors discovered that the tumor had not responded well to chemotherapy. My PET/CT scan showed a lesion still active. My fight was far from over.

This time, the medical team explained that I needed immunotherapy — infusions every three weeks for two years, thirty-three treatments in total. Each small bottle of medicine, 200 ml at a time, carries both hope and fear. Hope that it will keep me alive. Fear that I won’t be able to afford the next one.

The total cost of this treatment is over one million zloty — a number that feels unreal, almost cruel in its enormity. For my mother, who has already sacrificed everything, it is a mountain too high to climb. Yet without these treatments, the cancer will not rest. It will grow again, silently, mercilessly, until it takes everything I have left.

But I refuse to give up. I am only 20 years old. I still want to live — not just to exist, but to truly live. I want to laugh with my siblings, to celebrate birthdays, to walk under the sun without fear that it may be my last day. I want to chase my dreams again, even if they look different now. Every infusion brings me one step closer to that life. Every scan brings a wave of anxiety, but also a spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, I am winning this fight.

I know now what it means to depend on the kindness of others. I know the humility of asking for help, and the incredible power of compassion. Because of you — people I have never met — I am still alive today. You gave me light in my darkest hours, and that is something I will carry in my heart forever.

So I am asking again — not out of pity, but out of hope. Please, help me continue this fight. Help me finish what we started. I am not asking for sympathy. I am asking for a chance — a chance to grow up, to love, to laugh, to live the life that once felt impossible.

Every donation, every message, every prayer whispered in my name brings me closer to life. You already gave me one miracle — please don’t let this be the end of my story. I can’t say goodbye yet. Not now. Not when hope is still within reach.

My name is Tala. I am 20 years old. I am still here. I am still fighting.
And with your help, I believe — truly, deeply — that I can win.

With endless gratitude, hope, and love,