And suddenly I am not the therapist.
Not the ballerina.
Not the woman navigating a complicated love life.
I’m their baby girl who needs to stop hiding.
We settle in my office with the door closed. The familiar scent of eucalyptus from my diffuser mixing with my favorite steak salad that my parents picked up on their way over. As Mama unpacks the containers or looks like she’s feeding an army instead of one tired daughter. Daddy bows his head briefly before we touch anything.
“Father, thank You for this food and for this delightfully beautiful, brilliant, amazing child of ours,” he murmurs as he looks over at me and winks. His silliness causes me to giggleas he finishes, “Give us wisdom. Give her strength. Give us understanding.”
“Amen,” Mama and I echo softly.
For a few minutes we pretend this is just a normal lunch. Mama fusses over whether I’m eating enough. Daddy asks about the academy. I answer honestly my passion for dance and advocacy coming through.
But they didn’t come just for small talk.
Daddy clears his throat gently. “Bean, tell us what’s really going on.”
I smile because JaJa has everyone calling me Bean.
I set my fork down.
“Years of flares have taken a toll,” I say evenly, even though the words land with a thud in my chest. “My spleen and kidneys are showing signs of considerate damage. They’re functioning, but not the way they used to. These days my body just doesn’t bounce back the way it did when I was younger.”
Mama’s hands fidget in her lap. Daddy’s jaw tightens with sadness. They both try not to appear affect but I can feel their grief trickling in.
“It’s not catastrophic—yet.” I rush to add. “It’s just… cumulative and causing more flares. It’s a nightmare loop I can’t seem to wake up from.”
Mama reaches across the desk and grabs my hand. “Baby.”
I swallow hard. “I’m tired. Not just physically. Mentally. Fighting your own body every day is exhausting. I plan my life around sickle Cell. I stay stress free. I get rest. I go the mile to avoid triggers. It still ambushes me.”
The words spill out before I can stop them.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m negotiating with something that’s determined to win.”
Mama’s eyes fill immediately. Daddy’s do too even though he blinks hard like he’s trying to keep it together.
“I don’t want to give up,” I continue quietly. “But I’d be lying if I said I don’t get tired of fighting.”
Mama stands and pulls me into her arms without asking. She smells like home. Like a safe place to lay my fears.
“You are not weak for saying that,” she whispers.
Daddy stands too, placing one strong hand on my shoulder.
He inhales slowly before speaking.
“2 Corinthians 12:9,” he says gently. “‘My grace is sufficient for thee: For my strength is made perfect in weak.’”
I close my eyes.
“You have fought with courage your entire life,” he continues. “You fight because you are called to live, to love, and to serve. But listen to me carefully.”
His voice softens. The tone less preacher and more father.
“You fight until you cannot anymore. If the time comes when you reach that place that you cannot fight anymore—you lay the weight of your pain at our Father God’s feet. You will not carry it alone because you were never meant to.”
