Another day has passed — a day that will forever remain in our hearts. It was a day defined by fear, exhaustion, and — most importantly — hope. A day that demanded every last ounce of courage our daughter possesses. And once again, Zosia reminded us all that even the smallest warrior can carry the heart of a lion.

Zosia has just undergone therapeutic apheresis, a complex and intense procedure that purifies her blood in preparation for an upcoming autologous bone marrow transplant. To most people, those may just sound like clinical, impersonal medical terms. But to us, they hold a weight that is deeply human — they represent another desperate, grueling fight for her life.

Picture this: a little girl lying completely still for hours on end, her tiny body connected to whirring machines that hum steadily beside her bed. Her blood is drawn out, filtered, and returned — a mechanical rhythm of survival. The tubes, the needles, the sterile air — it's all overwhelming. The procedure is long, draining, and terrifying, especially for a child. And yet, Zosia didn’t complain. She didn’t cry. She faced it all with a silent strength that left even her caregivers in awe. She simply fought — quietly, bravely, and beautifully.

Her doctors and nurses were extraordinary — vigilant, focused, and unwavering. Every screen, every number, every heartbeat mattered. A single wrong reading could bring danger, and yet they stood ready, responding with skill and compassion to every subtle change. It was a day full of unspoken prayers, of hands held tightly, of tears we dared not let fall.

And then, finally, came the words we had waited for:

“She’s stable.”

That one word — stable — felt like a miracle. After everything our little girl has endured, hearing those two syllables was like breathing again after drowning. It was the light at the end of a dark tunnel — a fragile, flickering light, but real nonetheless.

Yet we know this is not the end. This is only the middle of the journey.

Three months have already passed — three long, painful months spent within hospital walls. We’ve traded the comfort of our home for sterile hallways, the laughter of playtime for the beep of monitors. The scent of antiseptic has replaced bedtime kisses. The gentle hum of nurses has taken the place of bedtime stories. The hospital has become our second home — a strange place where fear and hope live side by side.

Now, three more months stretch before us — three more months of uncertainty, of tests and transfusions, of procedures and prayers. Each morning starts with fresh lab results, new numbers, new possibilities. Each evening ends with the same quiet gratitude: we made it through another day.

And yet, in the midst of pain and fatigue, there are moments of light. Moments that lift us, that remind us of why we keep going. Zosia’s soft smile after a successful procedure. A tiny improvement in her blood counts. Her hand reaching out, steady and brave. Moments so small they might go unnoticed in normal life — but now, they are everything. They are our victories. They are proof that miracles happen — slowly, steadily — one heartbeat at a time.

Zosia has shown us the purest form of courage. Not the kind that shouts or demands attention — but the kind that endures in silence, the kind that whispers “I will not give up.” Even when her body weakens, her spirit doesn’t. Even when she’s too tired to speak, her eyes still shine with a stubborn defiance. She fights — not because she’s unafraid, but because she chooses to face her fear with grace.

There are moments when our strength fails — when exhaustion becomes too much, when fear swallows everything, when we ask ourselves how much more we can bear. But then we look at her — our little girl, our lioness — and somehow, the strength returns. Her resilience becomes our own.

And in those moments, we are reminded: we are not alone.

Your messages, your prayers, your donations — they are not just gestures. They are lifelines. They surround us like invisible arms, holding us up when we feel like we’re about to fall. They give us hope on the darkest days. They give Zosia a real chance to keep fighting.

We’ve learned that this journey is not just about science and medicine. It’s about the human spirit. It’s about love — love from friends, from strangers, from people we may never meet, who choose to care. It’s about the kindness that crosses borders, that rises above differences, that says, “We will not let this child fight alone.”

There is still a long road ahead. More treatments. More waiting. More uncertainty. But we believe — deeply, fiercely — that with your support, Zosia will overcome. Her story is not one of despair, but of endurance. Not of surrender, but of unwavering hope.

Zosia has already triumphed over more than many adults face in a lifetime. She is living proof that courage has no age, that love knows no limits, and that even the smallest body can hold an unbreakable spirit.

So please — stay with us. Stay with Zosia.

Because every bit of love, every word of encouragement, every single prayer brings her one step closer to healing. Together, we can help this little lioness roar again — free from pain, free from fear, and free to live the childhood she so deserves.